SOLITARY  HOURS 


SOLITARY  HOURS 


BY 


FREDERICK    SCHENCK   SGHLESINGER 


New  York 

JAMES  T.   WHITE  &  CO. 
1922 


Copyright 

JAMBS  T.  WHITE  &  CO. 
1922 


CONTENTS 

PRELUDE      9 

IN    THE    STILLNESS    OF    NIGHT „ 13 

THE    LAND  OF  TOMORROW    14 

THE    OMNIPRESENT   SUN     15 

THE    LOST   DREAM    15 

LINES   TO    HELEN     16 

A  FAIR  PAY 18 

DITHYRAMB      19 

IF  LIFE'S  A  DREAM 20 

POE 20 

ODE  TO  POESY 21 

THE  SCULPTOR   24 

THE  MERMAID'S  TEAR  29 

THE  TRAMP  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER   33 

THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN  39 

SEA-DIRGE    43 

THE  STAR  OF  HOPE 44 

THE  BATTLEFIELDS 44 

A  CHRISTMAS  REVERIE 47 

OLD  TRUTHS   51 

FAMILIAR  SCENES 51 

THE  SEA-GULL    53 

JUNE     56 

ODE    TO    THE    TEMPEST    56 

THE    AMERICAN    EAGLE 59 

LIFE    AND   THE    SOUL 60 

SHELLEY     60 

MAN'S   FINITE  YEARS 61 

KEATS      .  62 


60 
<c 


CONTENTS— continued 

DEMOCRACY 62 

A    MANHATTAN    SUNSET 63 

SLUMBERING  MANHATTAN 64 

ON  BROOKLYN   BRIDGE 65 

LINCOLN     66 

LAHCHMONT    66 

THE   GARDEN   OF   MY  DREAMS 67 

AN    INVOCATION  TO  THE   MUSE    68 

FRAGMENT      . 68 

MARIANNA     69 

MISERY     70 

THE    ROSE     71 

PRESIDENT   HARDING    71 

THE   RIVAL  OF  POESY 72 

A    SERENADE     73 

EXILED    74 

AH,  GOLDEN  DREAM   OF  YESTERDAY/    75 

MARTHA  AT  THE  PIANO 76 

MY    VIRGIN    MARY    76 

MY   HERMITAGE 77 

A  SONG   OF   IDLENESS 78 

UNANSWERED     79 

AN   INDIAN  PRAYER 81 

DREAMLAND     82 

WASHINGTON    IRVING     83 

MACSWINEY     83 

GOD  IN    NATURE    84 

THE   VIOLET  AND  THE   OAK    85 

THE  REASON   FOR   CREATION 86 

THE  GRAVEYARD 87 

LOVE    OF   MINE    88 


CONTENTS— continued 

HOW  I   LOVE  YOU 89 

THE  FLOWEH  POT 90 

JOY      92 

THE    MERRY    BROOKLET    93 

WHY   I   SING    94 

THE    END      94 

ON  INNOCENCE   95 

HEART'S  DESIRE    95 

IN  THE  ART  MUSEUM 96 

SNOWFLAKES    96 

THE  ELOPEMENT  97 

THE  HUMMING  BIRD 98 

THE  SONG  BIRD  98 

LOVE  SONG    99 

ENVOY     .                                                                                                                     .  100 


PRELUDE. 

The  Solitary  on  the  city  square 

Oft  mixes  with  the  crowds  that  hustle  there, 

His  hands  tucked  in  his  pockets,  and  his  dreams 

Adrift  on  the  breast  of  the  living  streams, 

With  phantom  shapes  or  spectral  shades  beside — 

The  only  friends  in  whom  he  may  confide. 

Alone  within  the  midst  of  crowds  he  broods 

Like  a  recluse  among  secluded  woods; 

Alone  he  muses  on  the  busy  square, 

With  aimless  feet,  and  heart  relieved  of  care; 

Or  scrutinizes  oft  the  passer-by, 

Reading  the  heart  and  fathoming  the  eye, 

As  through  the  city's  narrow  streets  or  wide 

He  strolls  with  friendly  Loneliness  as  guide, 

Or  sometimes  mid  the  peace  of  rural  scenes, 

With  chin  in  hand,  on  a  green  bank  he  leans 

Beside  a  babbling  brook,  that  aimless  flows 

Through  valley  woods  and  fields  from  mountain  snows — 

There  listens  to  the  music  of  the  stream, 

And  hears  the  leaves  a-whispering  a  dream. 

And  now,  on  through  the  pages  of  a  book 

He  strolls  and  sings;  so,  reader,  if  you  look 

Within  this  little  volume,  you  will  find 

His  pensive  face,  and  peep  into  his  mind. 


SOLITARY  HOURS 


IN  THE  STILLNESS  OF  NIGHT. 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  Love,  I  dream  oft  of  you, 

When  the  world  is  asleep  and  the  long  toil  is  through. 

Like  a  lost  chord  of  music  you  seem  then  to  me 

That  still  lingers  a  space  in  my  fond  memory. 

I  have  heard  it  before  in  the  dim  long  ago 

Ere  I  felt  sorrow's  scourge  or  the  winter  blasts  blow; 

And  I'll  hear  it,  I'm  sure,  when  the  world  is  no  more, 

And  I  stand  on  the  brink  of  a  far-away  shore. 

Au  revoir  for  a  brief  while.     The  day  will  come  yet 

When   your   heart,   Love,   and    mine,   Love,   may   never 

forget. 

Oh,  you  ne'er  can  avoid  it  while  Fate  flies  before! 
I'll  be  waiting  you  there  when  the  journey  is  o'er. 


13 


THE  LAND  OF  TOMORROW. 

Friend,  let  us  rest  in  the  valley's  lap  here, 

And  ease  our  parched  throat  at  God's  hubhling  spring; 

Let  us  forget  that  we  e'er  shed  a  tear, 

And  with  the  sun  smile,  and  with  the  birds  sing — 

For  when  we  have  rested  and  quenched  our  thirst, 

And  relieved  our  backs  of  hardship  and  sorrow, 

We  shall  pick  up  our  packs,  and  oh,  daring  the  worst, 

Wend  over  the  hills  to  the  Land  of  Tomorrow. 

Though  the  way  we  have  come  has  been  rugged  and 

steep, 

And  the  Earth  grows  old,  still  our  hearts  are  young; 
And  here  in  this  valley  tonight  we'll  sleep. 
And  dream  of  whatever  the  birds  have  sung. 
But  when  we  have  rested  and  drunk  our  fill, 
And  wantoned  with  Joy,  and  forsaken  Sorrow, 
We  shall  leave  the  valley,  and  climb  the  hill, 
And  follow  the  trail  towards  the  Land  of  Tomorrow 


THE    OMNIPRESENT   SUN. 

God  pity  those  that  sigh  and  grieve 
With  little  joy  to  cleanse  the  spring 

Of  sorrow  in  their  lonely  hearts, 
And  little  spirit  left  to  sing! 

Oh,  you  who  laugh  on  yonder  hill, 
Look  down  upon  the  lowly  vale, 

And  send  a  sunbeam  to  the  .man, 
Whose  looks  are  wan,  whose  cheeks  are  pale 

For  there  is  sun  enough  for  all — 
It  floods  the  mountain  tops  afar ! 

The  dome  of  Heaven  is  infinite! 
For  every  man  there  beams  a  star! 


THE  LOST  DREAM. 

I  fashioned  a  dream  the  other  day 
Out  of  the  starlight  of  Love's  skies. 
Upon  a  wind  it  flew  away — 
LTntil  I  found  it  in  your  eyes. 


15 


LINES  TO  HELEN. 

If  Heaven  is  not  your  love,  Helen, 

I  know  not  where  it  lies; 
For  Heaven  is  not  above,  Helen, 

But  in  your  kind,  dear  eyes. 

If  Beauty  is  not  yourself,  Helen, 

Oh,  what  then  may  it  be? 
For  Beauty,  elusive  elf,  Helen, 

I   nowhere  else  can   see. 

If  Constancy's  not  your  heart,  Helen, 

Then  what  is  Constancy? 
For  this  is  all  your  art,  Helen, 

To  love  and  constant  be. 

If  Virtue's  not  your  soul,  Helen, 
Pray  what  may  Virtue  be? 

For   you   are   Virtue's   goal,   Helen, 
What  good  may  match  with  thee ! 

What  sing  the  birds  in  spring,  Helen, 
At  the  earliest  peep  o'  dawn? 

Why  do  the  flowers  up-spring,  Helen, 
On  April's  vernal  lawn? 

Why  do  the  roses  red,  Helen, 
Cover  the  old  vine's  thorn? 

And  why  is  the  winter  dead,  Helen? 
And  whv  are  dreams  reborn? 


16 


The  answer  well  I  know,  Helen; 

It  glistens  in  your  eyes. 
Birds  sing  and  flowers  grow,  Helen, 

For  you,  O  fair  and  wise. 

The  spring  returns  for  you,  Helen; 

For  you  the  winter  dies; 
And  all  the  world  is  new,  Helen, 

Reflected  in  your  eyes. 

And  is  love  really  true,  Helen? 

And  is  love  not  a  dream? 
And  I  have  found  in  you,  Helen, 

That  distant  astral  gleam. 

I  thought  it  could  not  be,  Helen; 

That  love  was  but  a  cloud; 
That  Death  would  come  to  me,  Helen, 

And  wrap  me  in  a  shroud. 

But  now  at  last  I  see,  Helen, 
That  love's  immortal  made. 

In  heaven  now  I'll  be,  Helen; 
Within  your  dear  arms  laid. 


17 


A  FAIR  DAY. 

This  day  all  other  days  throws  in  eclipse ! 

The  roses  on  the  creeping  vine  outside 

My  window,  kiss  the  pane  like  Helen's  lips. 

My  chamber  window  now  I  open  wide, 

And  marvel  on  the  glory  of  the  skies. 

The  violets  in  the  grass  below  me  seek 

To  smile  at  me  like  Helen's  lovely  eyes. 

These  zephyr  lips  that  lightly  kiss  my  cheek, 

Can  they  be  Helen's  breath?     I  hear  her  sighs 

Among  the   rustling  leaves;   her   beauties   speak 

In  every  blade  of  grass  and  gentle  flower. 

Yet  if  you  deem  this  fair  day's  loveliness 

Can  gladden  me,  you  know  not  love's  sweet  hour. 

All  but  reminds  me  what  I  would  possess! 


18 


DITHYRAMB. 

Hail  Bacchus!     Wreaths  of  sun-kissed  grapes  I  bring 

To  crown  your  merry  pate! 

Let  maidens  dance  with  streaming  garlands,  while  birds 
sing, 

And  tiny  fairies  ring 
Mellifluous  bells  among  the  rustling  leaves, 

And  poets  prate 
That  he  who  loves  the  bottle  never  grieves ! 

The  girl  I  love  must  kiss  your  rosy  lips 

And  wanton  in  your  arms! 
He  is  my  friend  who  from  the  wine-glass  freely  sips — 

Incontinently  tips 
A  friendly  bottle  down  his  guzzling  throat ! 

For  all  have  charms 
Who  on  the  belly  fat  of  Bacchus  gloat. 

Rubicund  Bacchus,  god  of  gods,  all  hail! 

Your  bloated  face  is  kind. 
Beside  you,  ruddy  glutton,  reddest  roses  pale! 

Heaven  grant  us  good  ale, 
Ruby  and  topaz  wines  to  drink  and  drink — 

Till  we  go  blind, 
And  staggering,  no  more  of  trouble  think ! 

Champagne  is  bubbling  in  your  sparkling  eyes! 

A  glance  from  them  I'd  quaff ! 
And  claret,  running  over,  on  your  thick  lips  lies ! 

Fools  that  drain  it  are  wise ! 
Ho,  let  us  reel  together  in  a  dance, 

And  sing  and  laugh ! 
On  purple  grapes,  barefooted,  will  we  prance! 


19 


IF  LIFE'S  A  DREAM. 

Is  life  a  dream  that  haunts  celestial  sleep? 

One  consolation  in  this  thought  I  take: 
We  never  dream,  when  sunk  in  slumber  deep, 

Save  in  that  pregnant  moment  ere  we  wike. 


POE. 

The  raven  casts  his  shadow  o'er  the  door, 

Perched  on  the  bust  of  Pallas.    What  croaks  he, 
That  melancholy  bird,  so  mourn  fully? 
The  old  refrain  of  "Never — nevermore!" 
The  bells  ring  out,  their  souls  the  bells  out -pour! 
They  cry  of  death,  of  love  and  life  to  me — 
They  shriek  like  ghouls  and  demons  fiendishly — 
They  yell  deliriously  o'er  and  o'er! 
O  mighty-voiced  musician,  pour  again 
Those  haunting  melodies,  of  sweet  refrain ! 
'Twas  given  you  to  know  why  the  stars  beam, 
To  sense  the  horrible  dreams  that  demons  dream, 
To  hear  the  voices  of  the  angels. . .  Lo ! 
Until  these  die,  your  dreams  will  not,  sweet  Poe ! 


20 


ODE  TO  POESY. 


Fair  Poesy,  to  you,  sweet  elf,  I  sing, 

Reclining  on  the  grass  in  this  wild  wood, 

And  watching  how  my  idle  fancies  wing 

Up  to  the  moon,  that  with  a  golden  flood 

Inundates  me;  till  in  a  pensive  mood 

I  sink,  and  muse  on  a  celestial  clime, 

And  feel  the  languor  of  my  lazy  blood, 

And  stretch  my  limbs,  forgetful  of  fleet  time; 

Forsaking   Labor's   arms  to  wanton   with   lewd   Rhyme. 

Close  to  your  breast,  clasped  in  your  loving  arms, 

Fair  Poesy;  ah,  let  me  here  with  you 

Toy  with  eternity,  behold  your  charms, 

And  pant  with  passion,  vowing  my  love's  true — 

So  vast  as  heaven,  and  eternal  too ! 

Ah,  let  me  crush  your  breasts  against  my  heart, 

And  drink  your  lips'  intoxicating  dew, 

And  feel  your  heart  leap  with  a  frightened  start; 

Defying  man  or  god  to  rend  our  souls  apart! 

Woman,  vain  mother  of  ignoble  man; 

Fickle,  deceitful,  selfish  and  purse-proud ! 

I  must  detest  her,  though  part  of  God's  plan 

She  be.    What  is  her  beauty?     But  a  cloud, 

A  dream,  a  puff  of  smoke,  a  crime's  fair  shroud ! 

Her  heart  is  false  that  eats  the  outward  fair 

Like  canker  in  a  rose.     I  cry  aloud 

Her  infamy  and  curse  her  evil  stare. 

Blaspheme  her  smiling  lips,  revile  her  brassy  hair! 


21 


A  female  of  a  different  stamp  are  you, 

Fair  Poesy,  born  amid  azure  skies! 

Your  lips  are  constant  and  your  heart  is  true; 

Kind  is  the  light  within  your  astral  eyes; 

Fair  words  of  truth  and  never  specious  lies 

Course  from  your  tongue;  your  grace  and  beauty  show 

Without  an  evil  shadow;  fair  and  wise, 

Sweet  Poesy,  is  your  bright,  noble  brow; 

And  blest  your  rosy  lips — A  kiss  from  them  allow ! 


So,  my  beloved,  I  have  sworn  to  love 
But  you  and  you  alone,  sweet  constant  one! 
No  idol-god  have  I:  your  face  above 
Within  the  clouds,  caressed  by  the  morn's  sun, 
I  worship  ardently,  till  Day  is  done 
And  Night  comes  on  with  sweeping  sable  trailing. 
And  swiftly  over  land  and  sea  does  run; 
Till  Coyote  to  his  love,  the  moon,  is  wailing, 
And  those  mad  barks,  the  stars,  in   the  vast  void   ar; 
sailing. 


Here  in  these  verdant  woods  together  let 

Us  lie,  and  kiss,  caress,  and  laugh  and  sigh ! 

Of  the  world's  troublous  cares,  Love,  do  not  fret; 

But  here,  while  in  my  arms  you  amorous  lie, 

Dream  life  away,  aye  musing  on  the  sky; 

Fanned  by  the  winds,  thrilled  by  my  passionate  kiss. 

What  boots  it  that  the  horny  satyrs  spy 

On  sacred  love,  the  joy  of  which  they  miss? 

They  cannot  spoil  the  blessedness  of  that  deep  bliss! 


22 


The  birds  among  the  branches,  Love,  will  sing 

Of  our  bright  romance,  and  the  passing  wind 

Will  to  the  rustling  leaves  the  sweet  news  bring! 

The  grasses  growing  at  our  feet,  you'll  find, 

Will  murmur  of  how  sweet  'tis  to  be  blind 

When  Eros  casts  love's  darkness  o'er  the  eyes; 

And   fairy  dreams  will  pleasantly  haunt  the  mind, 

A  mountain  meditate  on  us  with  brow  wise, 

And  the  clouds  gaze  down  on  us  from  the  infinite  skies. 

Here  in  these  pathless  woods,  just  you  and  I 

Will  dream  of  things  that  no  one  yet  has  dreamed; 

Here  in  these  verdant  woods,  'neath  this  wide  sky, 

We'll  count  the  stars — the  stars  that  e'er  have  beamed; 

And  watch  the  crescent  moon,  whose  rays  have  streamed 

So  oft  on  our  hearts,  setting  them  afire — 

The  same  moon  that  has  through  the  ages  gleamed; 

And  nought  shall  tempt  us  to  a  prominence  higher, 

For  you  and  I  shall  have  all  that  our  hearts  desire! 

Blest  Poesy!     How  can  I  prove  my  love? 

I  wish  that  I  might  leave  the  world  entire 

And  fly  to  some  fair  paradise  above 

That's  the  epitome  of  my  desire, 

Where  true  love's  inextinguishable  fire 

Blazes  and  leaps  and  roars  eternally, 

And  Thor  strikes  thunder  from  his  awful  lyre, 

And  romance  freed  is  from  reality! 

Oh,  there  with  you,  Love,  I  might  truly  happy  be ! 


23 


THE  SCULPTOR. 


Sculptor  (modelling.) 

Tonight  you  are  most  beautiful,  O  Moon ! 
Tonight  you're  brighter  than  a  million  stars. 
Oh,  smile  on  me,  your  slave  of  abject  earth, 
And  I  will  model  what  you  mean  to  me. 
You  are  a  female  goddess,  and  your  form 
Is  fairer  far  than  earthly  women  are. 
Diana  by  the  Romans  you  were  called. 
You  worshipped  then  the  fair  Endymion. 
He  never  could  have  loved  you  as  I  do. 
I  dream  of  you,  Love,  even  in  my  sleep 
You  are  my  life;  your  spirit's  in  this  clay. 

Moon 

Mortal,  be  not  such  a  fool. 
Know  you  Heaven's  ancient   rule? 
Men  may  not  with  gods  e'er  mate, 
Save  when  'tis  ordained  by  fate. 

Sculptor 

Take  pity,  fair  Moon,  on  my  wounded  heart ! 
It  bleeds,  and  life  more  dreadful  is  than  death. 
Oh!  what  has  fate  to  do  with  the  heart's  yearnings- 
But  love  alone  controls  a  loving  soul. 
See,  Venus  smiles  tonight  within  the  sky. 
Ask  her,  O  Moon,  if  I  may  not  court  you. 


Moon 

Mortal,  be  not  overbold. 
Of  all  dangers  you've  been  told. 
I  will  warn  you  now  no  more. 
Men  dare  not  the  gods  adore. 

Sculptor 

I  dare  not.   Brightness ;   Love  within  me  dares ! 
He  takes  my  heart  and  moulds  it  as  he  wills, 
Just  as  I  mould  my  vision  in  this  clay. 
Then  blame  not  me,  Sweet,  for  adoring  you — 
Blame  Love,  the  villain;  he  is  guilty  of  the  crime. 


Since  my  wish  you'll  not  obey, 
I  must  hide  myself  away. 
Come,  dark  cloud;  my  face  conceal, 
Lest  these  glances  mortals  steal 
Overmuch  should  anger  me, 
And  soon  shock  my  modesty. 

Cloud 

Thus  all  safe  I  wrap  you  round 
In  a  mantle  of  thick  mist. 
All  things  living  on  the  ground 
From  rude  staring  must  desist. 

Moon 
Thanks  for  this  protection,  cloud. 

25 


Cloud 
That  I  can  help  you  I  am  proud. 

Moan 
Will  he  die  of  a  broken  heart? 

Cloud 

No,  he  is  wedded  to  his  art, 
And  will  make  a  moon  of  clay 
Ere  he  flee  from  life  away. 

II. 

Death   (dancing). 

A  song  I  sing 

Of  dust  and  bones, 
Dance  in  a  ring 

With  shrieks  and  groans ! 

Sculptor 

But  you  are  fair,  sweet  Death,  as  fairies  are! 
Your  eyes  are  lovely  dreams;  soft  are  your  sighs; 
Your  lips  are  roses  red;  your  smiles  are  true; 
Your  hair  is  like  a  flood  of  mystic  light, 
And  gracefully  you  dance  upon  a  grave. 
My  head  could  peacefully  rest  on  your  bosom. 

26 


Death 

You  call  me  fair? 

To  some  am  I. 
Gold  is  my  hair, 

And  sweet  my  sigh. 

Sculptor 
Oh !  let  me  hold  you  in  my  arms,  dear  Death ! 


I  dance  like  this ! 

Catch  me  if  you 
Lust  for  a  kiss 

That  you  may  rue. 

If  you'll  love  me, 

And  be  my  slave, 
I'll  dance  with  glee 

Upon  your  grave. 
Ha  ha  ha! 

(He  chases  her  as  she  dances  about  him.     She  disap 
pears,  and  he  falls  on  his  face.) 

Sculptor 

She  has  evaded  me.     Alas!  alas! 
I  would  have  drunk  oblivion  from  her  lips, 
And  slept   eternally  within  her  arms. 
There's  nothing  I  can  do  now — nothing  now ! 
Unless  I  go  on  modelling  the  moon. 

27 


With  madness  in  my  fingers,  Moon  above, 
I   mould  your  visage,  and  my  tools  are  love. 
Since  life  has  chained  me  in  a  prison  bare, 
The  memory  of  you  is  all  that's  fair. 
The  clouds  have  hidden  you,  alack,  from  sight; 
But  in  a  vision  I  hold  you  tonight. 
The   blind  will  call  this  form  I  mould  a  dream; 
But  it  is  you  who  mid  the  heavens  gleam. 

The  work  is  finished.     Christ,  how  wondrous  fair ! 
How  did  I  ever  dare  to  mould  such  beauty? 
It  is  the  moon  herself  in  all  her  glory — 
You,  Goddess,  I  could  not  refrain  from  loving. 
I'll  press  this  statue  to  my  frantic  heart, 
And  kiss  these  smiling  lips  of  life-like  clay; 
I'll  hold  these  cold  hard  breasts  against  my  soul, 
While  I  pretend  my  art  is  you,  O  Moon ! 
I  cannot  bear  the  joy  of  this !    Good  God ! 
I  sink  upon  my  knees — I  swoon — I  die! 

Death 

Here  rests  his  head 

Where  it  did  swoon, 
And  he  is  dead 

Who  loved  the  moon. 
The  grasses  o'er  his  bones  shall  wave. 
And  I  shall  dance  upon  his  grave. 


28 


THE  MERMAID'S  TEAR. 

"Among  the  sentimental  and  romantic  Arabs  a  pecu 
liar  legend  is  current  as  to  the  origin  of  pearls.  They 
say  that  the  gems  are  formed  from  mermaids'  tears, 
which  fall  into  the  oyster  while  the  shell  is  open." 

I. 

On  Bahrein's  sands  a  naked  Arab  lay. 

With  idle  lassitude  he  gazed  and  dreamed 

Upon  the  merry,  romping  waves  at  play 

On  the  blue  Persian  gulf,  where  Surya  gleamed. 

Like  diamonds  those  sparkling  sunbeams  streamed 

Across  the  dancing  waters  on  that  day. 

Bournu  this  dark-skinned  giant  had  been  called. 
He  was  an  idler,  born  of  sturdy  race, 
Who  dreamed  all  day  on  breakers  white  that  walled 
The  beach  of  Bahrein.    Sunlight  scorched  his  face; 
But  still  he  dreamed,  till  night  enwrapped  the  place, 
And  back  he  to  his  straw-roofed  shack  was  called. 

One  morn,  as  on  the  golden  sands  reclined 
He  mused  on  fleecy  clouds  that  drifted  by; 
As  on  his  dark  skin  softly  blew  the  wind, 
And  in  the  sea  seemed  mirrored  the  blue  sky, 
He  stretched  his  limbs  and  heaved  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  for  a  shattered  fancy  hopeless  pined. 

A  billow  like  a  desert  sand-drift  rose, 
And  broke  in  teeming  pearls  on  the  gold  beach. 
Across  the  gulf  the  breeze  now  madder  blows, 
And  in  that  breeze  invisible  spirits  screech. 
Bournu's  arms  toward  a  holy  vision  reach, 
And  prays  he,  "May  I  clasp  it  ere  it  goes !" 

29 


The  wave  had  tossed  a  mermaid  on  the  sands. 

Her  hair  was  gold,  not  black  Arabian  hair; 

Nor  was  her  skin  dark  brown  like  Bournu's  hands, 

But  white  as  the  foam  on  the  billows  fair. 

And  coral  beads,  that  Arab  dancers  wear, 

Were  her  red  lips.     Came  she  from  foreign  lands? 

Ah,  she  was  naked  as  the  naked  sea! 
Her  shameless  breasts  like  ocean  billows  rolled ! 
He  rubbed  his  eyes,  for  fear  he  dreamed  'twas  she. 
Vain  words !    Her  beauty  never  could  be  told. 
With  sapphire  tail  curled  on  those  sands  of  gold 
Sat  she,  and  down  her  back  her  fair  hair  streamed. 

He  clasped  her  to  his  bosom,  and  a  kiss 

He  planted  on  those  lips  of  coral  hue. 

He  held  her  close,  for  fear  that  he  might  miss 

One  heartbeat  from  that  breast;  and  oh,  he  knew, 

As  gazed  he  in  those  eyes  of  deep  sea-blue, 

He'd  found  his  long  desired  dream  of  bliss ! 

At  length — at  length  the  sun  rode  on  the  sea. 
The  night  was  near,  and  they  must  bid  farewell. 
They  lingered,  loath  to  part;  regretfully 
In  a  last  kiss  they  long  embraced,  when  fell 
In  Bournu's  palm — as  Arab  divers  tell — 
A  pearly  tear,  most  wondrous  fair  to  see ! 

But  she  he  loved,  the  mermaid  of  the  wave; 

She  had  departed  back  into  the  foam. 

Perhaps  within  a  subterranean  cave 

With  sharks  and  swordfish  she  had  made  her  home. 

Ah,  would  she  e'er  again  to  Bahrein  roam, 

And  him  who  loved  her  from  despairing  save? 


30 


One  seemed  to  answer  in  the  billows'  roar! 
What  were  those  words  the  billows  ever  cried? 
They  thundered,  "Nevermore!     Oh,  nevermore!" 
And  Bournu  shook  his  fist  at  them  that  lied; 
But  they  cared  not  how  madly  he  defied, 
And  still  that  same  refrain  to  him  they  bore. 

II. 

Out  on  the  gulf  the  small  boats  rode  the  wave. 
A  thousand  o'er  the  oyster  beds  that  day 
At  anchor  tossed,  while  did  nude  divers  brave 
The  fatal  shark  bite  and  the  poisonous  ray, 
Perils  unseen  that  'neath  those  waters  lay. 
Perhaps  yon  billow  danced  o'er  a  sea-grave ! 

In  one  of  these  boats,  that  an  Arab  crew 

Of  fifteen  manned,  now  Bournu  sat  and  dreamed; 

And  toward  Menameh  o'er  the  waters  blue 

On  mud-walled  coffee  shops  he  gazed,  and  deemed 

That  there  the  Hindus,  Jews  and  Parsees  schemed 

For  pearls  that  he  from  Bahrein's  waters  drew. 

So  long  as  there  were  pretty  women  born, 

So  long  should  there  be  willing  men  to  buy 

The  lustrous  pearls  that  every  year  were  torn 

Out  of  the  oyster  shells  in  which  they  lie, 

That  they  might  please  a  proud,  vain  beauty's  eye. 

Thus  Bournu  dreamed  in  pensive  mood  that  morn. 

He  had  for  hours  been  fondling  that  bright  tear 

That  the  fair  mermaid  of  the  wave  had  shed. 

His  mates  began  to  show  a  sign  of  fear. 

"Throw  overboard  that  ras!"  broad  Anzac  said. 

"The  thing's  bewitched !"     And  in  his  voice  was  dread. 

But  Bournu,  dreaming,  did  not  even  hear. 

31 


At  length,  grown  desperate,  great  Anzac  tall 
Rose  in  the  boat,  and  from  the  dreamer  tore 
That  lustrous  pearl,  and  quickly  let  it  fall 
Overboard,  crying,  "Lie  there  ever  more, 
O  evil  ras!"     But  Bournu  rising,  swore. 
Impending  passions  in  his  eyes  appall ! 

He  lifted  giant  Anzac  in  mid-air 
And  cast  him,  as  though  he  had  been  a  child, 
Into  the  sea,  which  caused  all  eyes  to  stare 
With  wonderment.     But   Bournu  merely  smiled, 
And  without  weight  or  lifeline — Was  he  wild? — 
Dove  overboard  ere  any  were  aware. 

Declining  Surya  vanished  in  the  west, 
And  reigned  the  queen  of  darkness  on  her  throne. 
Bright  diamonds  glittered  on  her  dusky  breast; 
And  winds,  that  all  the  day  had  made  sweet  moan, 
Now  ceased  to  stir  the  waters,  or  to  groan; 
And  on  the  shore  Menameh  seemed  at  rest. 

But  BournUj  who  had  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Ne'er  reappeared  upon  the  surface  more. 
Oh,  had  the  Persian  Gulf  become  his  grave? 
When  late  that  night  the  Arabs  made  for  shore, 
One  diver  less  within  their  bark  they  bore. 
Whither  had  gone  that  madman  wildly  brave? 

Next  morn,  amid  the  drift  wood  on  the  sand, 

A  lifeless  body  in  the  sunlight  lay. 

Some  children  found  the  corpse  up-turned  there,  and 

In  terror  fled,  shocked  in  the  midst  of  play. 

Bournu  it  was  that  on  the  beach  there  lay, 

And  a  large  pearl  still  clasped  that  lifeless  hand ! 


32 


THE  TRAMP  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

A  winter's  night  it  was  and  painfully  cold. 
A  blizzard  raged,  the  tempest's  voice  was  bold. 
The  night  was  black,  knee-high  the  drifted  snow. 
Like  hell  upon  the  face  the  wind  did  blow. 
Through  that  wild  storm  on  the  deserted  road 
Staggered  a  man  bereft  of  an  abode. 

The  tempest  pierced  his  rags  and  clutched  his  heart. 

Like  a  dead  man  he  walked,  and  was  in  part ! 

A  corpse  he  finds,  stark  frozen  in  the  snow. 

Moaning  the  wind  o'er  its  white  face  did  blow. 

Its  pockets  the  man  rifled,  but  nought  finds. 

On  he  continues,  and  the  blizzard  blinds. 

At  last  a  princely  dwelling  hove  in  view. 

The  man  approached  it,  passed  the  gateway  through, 

And  fell  unconscious  at  the  very  door. 

The  cannonading  elements  round  him  war! 

But  see,  a  light  glows  in  the  window  there; 

The  door  is  opened  and  two  strong  arms  bear 

That  senseless  body  into  a  large  room 

Where  blazes  a  great  log  fire  in  the  gloom. 

The  rescuer  chafes  the  stranger's  purple  hands. 
Then  at  a  cabinet  some  steps  off  he  stands, 
And  some  brown  whiskey  into  a  glass  tips, 
Which  presses  he  between  the  stranger's  lips. 
The  blood  ran  warmer  through  each  artery, 
The  eyes  unclosed  and  gazed  round  dazedly. 
"Do  you  feel  better  now,  friend?"  asked  the  host. 


33 


The  frightened  tramp  was  silent  as  a  ghost. 

"I'll  leave  you  here  beside  the  fire's  warmth,   friend," 

The  voice  continued,  "while  awhile  I  wend 

In  search  of  warmer  clothes  for  you  to  wear." 

The  tramp  was  left  to  brood  within  his  chair. 
Unto  himself  the  ragged  vagabond  smiled, 
And  gazed  on  the  flames  like  a  happy  child. 
Soon  with  apparel  warm  his  host  returned. 
Ah,  dreams  they  were  for  which  the  tramp  had  yearned 
While  staggering  through  the  fierce  storm,  bowed  with 

pain! 

But  ne'er  he  dreamed  he  could  his  dreams  obtain. 
A  warm,  soft  bed  was  granted  him  that  night, 
Flannel  pajamas  and  sheets  spotlessly  white. 
"Goodnight,"    his   host   bad.      "May   you,    friend,    sleep 

well." 
The  door  was  shut,  the  tramp  bound  in  a  spell. 

At  midnight  he,  the  bearded  villain,  rose. 
Still  like  a  fiend  the  tempest  outside  blows. 
He  creeps — more  stealthily  than  a  cat  he  goes — 
The  door  approaching  of  his  kind  host's  room, 
Intent  upon  promulgating  his  doom. 
The  doorknob's  turned,  the  villain's  foot  steps  in; 
His  knife  is  ready  clutched,  his  eyes  on  sin ! 
His  arm  he  raises.    Visions  of  his  loot 
Within  his  bestial  cranium  take  root. 
But  ere  the  blade  descends  into  that  breast, 
Those  kind  eyes  open,  iron  fingers  wrest 
The  hilt  from  the  ungrateful  villain's  hand 
Turned  are  the  tables,  face  to  face  they  stand. 


34 


"You  are  a  thankful  guest,  friend,  I  must  say," 
The  host  said  and  the  weapon  threw  away 
With  curious  smile.     "Is  this  how  you  repay 
My  kindness  now?     You  cause  me  much  dismay. 
Repent  the  deed.     Return  you  to  your  room, 
Obtain  your  needed  rest  and  spare  my  doom. 
If  you're  impoverished  and  want  some  gold, 
Your  stomach  to  appease  and  flee  the  cold, 
Do  not  go  off  without  first  seeing  me. 
I  promise  to  endow  you  handsomely." 


The  tramp  gaped  at  this  indefinable  man. 
Formed  he  a  scheme — a  surreptitious  plan, 
By  which  he  his  assaulter  hoped  to  trap? 
If  so,  he  would  not  be  caught  in  a  nap. 
This  man  would  surely  such  a  fool  not  be 
As  now  to  give  him  alms  and  set  him  free, 
When  he  to  take  his  life  had  just  essayed. 
His  cunning  he  discerned  and  was  afraid. 
"Ah,  why  dissemble?"  curtly  he  replied. 
"A  child  could  easilv  tell  vou  that  vou  lied." 


"You  don't  believe  me?"  said  the  singular  host. 
"I'll  my  sincerity  prove  at  any  cost." 
He  pressed  a  secret  button,when  behold ! 
A  panel  opened.     What  did  it  unfold? 
In  the  wall  was  disclosed  miraculously 
A  robust  safe,  which  straightway  opened  he. 
Some  weighty  bags  he  then  removed  therefrom. 
The  villainous  vagabond,  watching  him,  was  dumb. 


35 


He  closed  the  safe,  reshut  the  paneling, 

And  turning  to  the  tramp,  let  some  gold  ring 

Into  his  filthy  hands;  then  dropped  the  bags 

Along  with  it  and  said:  "Go  patch  your  rags! 

Here  take  it  all.     I  wish  it  could  be  more. 

'Twill  warm  you,  friend;  keep  winter  from  your  door." 

The  tramp  gasped  at  him,  as  though  stunned  was  he. 
"You  mean  you  give  me  this,  and  let  me  free?" 
He  asked  incredulously.     "But — but  why? 
What  would  you  have  me  do  for  it?     My  eye! 
If  this  is  genuine  gold,  enough  I  see 
To  keep  me  all  my  life  and  bury  me ! 
Who  would  you  have  me  kill?     I  am  your  man. 
Don't  waste  vain  words;  disclose  at  once  your  plan." 

"Nothing  whatever  ask  I  in  exchange. 
All  that  you  see  is  yours.     Does  it  seem  strange? 
I  do  not  lend  or  bribe  or  buy — I  give! 
Take  what  is  yours,  and  may  you  peacefully  live. 
But  I  perceive  you  cannot  comprehend 
My  reasoning.     My  policy  I'll  defend. 
I'm  not  insane  because  I  thus  you  free. 
'Tis  but  a  natural  outcome,  as  you'll  see, 
Of  just  my  everyday  philosophy. 
You  steal  and  kill,  but  you're  intelligent; 
As  learned  I  by  your  conversation's  bent 
Some  hours  ago:  so  lend  a  patient  ear, 
And  you'll  my  theory  of  the  cosmos  hear. 

"The  primary  question  we  should  ask  is  this: — 
Is  there  a  God?     Yes,  I  believe  there  is. 
A  dream  such  as  the  universe  is  defined 
Could  not  be  sans  a  Reason    (God)   behind. 

36 


The  second  question  is: — God,  who  is  He? 

An  individual?     No  —  Humanity! 

Whene'er  we  love,  it  seems  all  love  the  same. 

Hate,  envy,  courage,  fear,  delight  and  shame 

Like  buds  seem,  sprouted  from  a  single  plant. 

That  all  must  feel  with  ardor  variant. 

What  is  the  Essence  of  humanity? 

The  Universal  Soul,  it  seems  to  me. 

Though  man's  a  beast,  a  spirit  more  is  he. 

7*  Soul  the  mind?     No,  they  are  separate — 

Distinct,  and  though  connected,  cannot  mate. 

The  mind's  a  creature  of  the  physical  brain: 

The  Soul  is  God,  the  Universal  Main. 

Soul  is  emotions — feelings;  mind  is  thought, 

And  the  interpreter  for  Soul  of  aught 

Existing  in  the  outer  universe. 

The  mind  may  be  deranged,  its  thoughts  disperse 

Illogically,  and  in  different  shade 

The  same  world  paint  that  nought  has  overmade. 

But  God  (Emotion,  Soul)  has  never  changed; 

It  feels  the  same,  e'en  when  the  mind's  deranged 

The  madman  loves  and  hates  still  in  the  main 

As  loved  and  hated  he  when  he  was  sane; 

He  laughs  and  weeps,  he  longs  and  still  regrets 

The  same  as  e'er  before,  and  still  he  frets. 

The  soul  in  him  can  never  change  its  face, 

For  It  is  God  and  universal  space. 

All  men  possess  It,  even  dogs  and  cats; 

Pigs,  donkeys,  zebras,  lions,  mice  and  rats. 

Reacts  It  to  external  forces  hence 

Proportionate  to  the  brain's  intelligence 

Which  translates  life  with  divers  purblind  eyes  . 

Beyond  this  it  would  seem  that  nothing  lies, 


37 


For  nothing  in  the  cosmos  system  ends. 
Eternally  and  infinitely  wends 
The  universe  sans  finish  or  beginning, 
Justly  unjust  in  law,  and  righteously  sinning. 
Behind's  a  reason  which  no  man  may  know, 
Save  'tis  the  Soul   (God)    toiling  swiftly  slow. 

"Since  all  feel  with  the  universal  soul, 
I,  by  the  world  respected,  on  the  whole 
No  better  am  than  you,  the  common  thief. 
In  Soul  we  are  identical,  to  be  brief. 
Your  mind  interprets  differently  than  mine 
Life's  panorama,  which  both  must  define. 
Your  brain  conceives  'tis  best  to  be  a  crook: 
I  on  the  world  with  other  spectacles  look. 
Yet  both  enjoy  life,  suffer  and  desire 
Amid  our  chosen  spheres  with  equal  fire. 
Believing  that  your  soul's  the  same  as  mine, 
I  give  you  gold  to  ease  the  ache  of  thine; 
Though  you  no  more  than  I  in  general  grieve, 
Or  I  joy  more  than  you,  I  must  believe. 
Even  if  false  is  this  philosophy, 
It  will  teach  one  to  love  his  enemy 
Besides  his  friend,  and  so  instruct  that  men 
Should  all  men  love  for  being  equals  then." 

"Though  I  cannot  indorse  your  theory," 
The  tramp  said,  "praise  I  the  philosophy. 
A  thought  that  prompts  you  thus  to  me  forgive 
Must  be  a  thought  that  'twould  be  well  to  live. 
I  never  heard  a  churchman  or  good  book. 
That  praised  the  honest,  ever  praise  a  crook. 
Goodbye;  and  if  you  ever  need  a  friend, 
Don't  seek  an  honest  man,  but  for  me  send." 


38 


THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 


Cosette  before  the  window  sat  and  softly  played  on  her 

guitar. 
She  sang  a  deeply-moving  strain  of  him  who  went  away 

to  war. 
The  Argus  eyes  of  heaven  gleamed  with  brighter  ardor 

on  that  night; 
The  fair  moon  listened,  earthward  peered,  and  through 

the  window  shed  its  light; 
A    vine   of   roses   trembling   clung    below    the    singer's 

window  sill, 
And  charmed  the  scene  with  sweet  perfume  as  Venus 

smiled   beyond   the   hill; 
In  a  near  field  a  cricket  band  made  music  by  the  light  of 

stars — 
All   was   at   peace,   save   that   aloft  like  hell   in   heaven 

blazed  mad  Mars. 
She  gazed  adown  the  winding  road  and  strove  to  pierce 

the   blinding   dark; 
She  saw  the  ghost  of  him    she    loved;    she    heard    his 

voice's  echo — Hark! 
In   memory  she  heard  him  call!     In  memory  she  saw 

him  smile! 
She  struck  the  strings  of  her  guitar,  and  like  an  angel 

sang  the  while. 
The  stars  in  heaven  wept  to  hear  the  mournful  tenor  of 

that  strain; 
A  zephyr  sighed  a  deep-drawn  sigh  in  sympathy  of  that 

heart's  pain; 
The  roses  drooped  upon  the  vine;  some  petals  fluttered 

to  the  ground; 


39 


And  all  the  slumbering  night  was  wrapt  within  the  spell 

of  that  sweet  sound. 
Ah,  this  the  song  that  Cosette  sang!  Ah,  this  the  son°; 

the  stars  then  heard! 
More  mournful  than  the  moaning  wind,  sung  sweeter 

than  by  woodland  bird ! 

My  soldier,  sundered  from  my  breast, 
To  battle's  arms  you  falsely  fly, 
And  leave  your  lone  Cosette  unblest 
To  pine  beneath  a  lonely  sky! 

Why  have  you  left  me  all  alone? 
Here  in  our  homeless  home  I  sigh. 
I  cannot  sing,  I  only  moan; 
I   cannot  hope,  save  hope  to  die! 

The  roses  'neath  my  window,  Love, 
No  more  they  bloom  as  once  they  bloomed; 
Their  petals  fade  and  fall — Oh,  rove 
No  more  abroad,  your  home  is  doomed ! 

' 

Sometimes  it  seems  your  voice  I  hear. 
With  beating  heart  I  ope  the  door, 
And  vainly  through  the  darkness  peer; 
But  'tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more! 

Sometimes  your  footstep  in  the  hall 
I  seem  to  hear,  and  search  the  house; 
But  find  that  there  is  nought  at  all. 
Except  a  little  scurrying  mouse. 

40 


My  soldier,  can  your  heart  be  cold? 
Why  will  you  not  Cosette's  sighs  hear? 
Oh,  leave  your  deeds  of  glory  bold, 
And  from  my  hot  cheek  kiss  the  tear ! 

Neglected  in  the  woman's  lap  now  sank  at  length  the 

hushed   guitar. 
Into  the  night  she  hopeless  stared  with  thoughts  of  him 

who  fled  afar. 
The  dawn  peeped  slyly  o'er  the  hill  and  kissed  the  roses 

on  the  vine; 
The  sun  uprose  in  armor  gold  and  seemed  on  all  but 

her  to  shine. 
But  what  now  moves   along  the   road?     What  is  that 

crawling  black   speck  there? 
Her  soldier  cannot  have  returned.     To  dream  of  it  she 

may  not  dare ! 
Closer  and  closer  it  appears,  and  larger  and  still  larger 

grows, 
Until — She  cannot  doubt  her  eyes ! — Oh,  it  is  he  returned 

she  knows! 
A  few  fleet  steps  adown  the    path,    and    open    is    the 

garden  gate; 
A  dash  of  joy,  and  they  embrace.     No  longer  must  she 

pine  and  wait ! 
She  quaffs  his  soul  from  his  dear  lips;  she  drains  his 

passions  from  his  eyes; 
And  raising  her  fair  face  above,  she  thanks  the  dawn's 

light  in  the  skies. 
But  grateful  prayers  are  felt  too  soon.    Her  blessings 

are  not  what  they  seem. 
For  senseless  words  course  from  those  lips.    She  listens 

in  a  kind  of  dream. 


41 


She  listens  in  a  kind  of  dream.     Those  eyes?  Are  they 

not  gleaming  wild? 
Another    utters    those    strange   words,    another   babbles 

like  a  child ! 
Dumbly  she  sinks  into  the  dust,  and  mutely  stares  on 

that  changed  face. 
A  madman  has  returned   from  war!     Oh,  God  on  her 

despair  have  grace! 


SEA-DIRGE. 

0  ancient  mourner,  hoary  Sea ! 
Whose  soul  are  you  now  moaning  for? 
What  pleasant,   vanished  memory, 
Vast  waters,  are  you  groaning  for? 

1  hear  the  burden  of  a  song 

Past  wailing  winds  and  breakers'  roar, 
Out  where  the  mountains  roll  along 
To  meet  the  grand  peaks  of  the  shore. 

Mourn  ye  the  wrecks  that  vanished  are? 
Mourn  ye  the  worlds  that  are  no  more? 
The  night  descends,  and  shines  a  star 
Down  on  the  ancient,  wrinkled  shore — 

Down  on  the  crags  that  breast  the  waves, 
The  cruel  waves  that  ceaseless  roar; 
Down  on  the  earth  and  all  its  graves, 
From  which  the  dead  rise  nevermore. 


43 


THE  STAR  OF  HOPE. 

Within  the  quicksands  of  despair, 

Oh  what  if  I  should  founder  far? 

My  hands  in  the  nocturnal  air 

Reach  heavenward  for  a  glimmering  star ! 

That  star  is  hope  aloft  the  night.      , 
How  very  far  away  it  shines! 
How  faintly  scintillates  its  light ! 
No  wonder  that  the  sad  heart  pines. 


THE   BATTLEFIELDS. 

Awhile  agone  the  frightful  battle  thundered, 
The  cannon'  belched,  the  rifles  hissed  their  lead, 
The  bombs  exploded,  and  the  bayonets  dripped 
With  human  blood  and  in  the  sunlight  gleamed. 
Now  flowers  grow  where  once  the  wounded  bled, 
A  chestnut  tree  affords  the  visitor  shade. 
In  an  adjacent  meadow  cattle  graze, 
And  o'er  the  heroes'  graves  long  grasses  grow. 
Some  birds  are  singing  in  an  elder-bush, 
A  rill  is  rippling  like  a  bosomed  tune, 
And  on  the  distant  peaks  the  white  snows  rest 
To  let  the  dead  know  that  the  world's  still  cold. 

But  now  'tis  night.     Aloft  the  pale-faced  moon 
Her  vigil  keeps  of  the  deserted  earth; 
The  pale  moon  like  a  sentinel  in  the  sky 
Is  posted  o'er  these  devastated  fields. 
Here  silence  is  not  silence — something  more, 
Akin  to  the  awed  stillness  of  the  tomb, 
And  Contrast  like  a  sinister  shadow  slumbers. 


The  winds  that  blew  all  day  have  gone  to  sleep, 
The  birds  have  ceased  to  sing.  But  grim  Death  stirs. 
Lo!  from  the  graves  the  spectral  heroes  rise, 
Where  they  have  slept  in  peace  full  many  a  year. 
Their  heads  are  in  their  hands,  their  bones  are  bare, 
And  on  the  ground  their  arms  are  cast  aside. 
They  stare  unheeding  as  they  pass  me  by. 
Their  hollow  eyes  are  ghastly.     Can  the  dead 
Perceive  the  myst'ries  that  pervade  the  night? 
Their  fleshless  mouths  are  mute,  and  yet  it  seems 
As  though  with  one  another  they  converse. 
These  spectres  eat  and  drink.    Lo !  look  you  now. 
They  sit  at  their  repast  with  greedy  jaws. 

First   Spirit 

Brother,  try  this  juicy  worm. 
It  is  rich  with  warm,  red  blood. 
Thus   I  with  agony  did  squirm 
While  I  lay  dying  in  the  mud. 

Second  Spirit 
Let  me  have  a  draught  of  rain. 

Third  Spirit 

Here's   some  that   all  the  night  has  lain, 
And  it  is  stagnant  as  your  brain. 

Fourth  Spirit 

How  lucky  we  have  been  to  die, 

Since  now  we  may  in  the  dank  earth  lie ! 


4,5 


Fifth  Spirit 

Or  sleep  within  a  hollow  tree 
Where  goblins  fright  the  memory. 

Strange  morbid  visions  haunt  Night's  vast  abysses. 
Groans  stir  the  vapid  silence,  human  sighs 
Pervade  the  heavy  air,  till  I  too  moan. 
Oh,  aged  mothers !  bending  o'er  these  graves 
In  flowing  mourning,  sob  less  copiously, 
Your  wondering  infants  clutched  against  your  breasts! 
Young  maidens  fair,  ye  little  childish  forms, — 
Even  you  poor  dumb  brutes — all  mourn  in  vain ! 
Alas!  the  angels  in  God's  kingdom  weep, 
Till  terrified  I  flee  these  ghastly  scenes ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  REVERIE. 

The  flakes  fall  thick  and  fast  upon  the  town; 

Like  merry  elfins  they  come  tumbling  down. 

Wind  rumbles  like  a  ghost  the  window  pane, 

And  whistles  like  a  demon  gone  insane. 

Outside,  pedestrians  in  mufflers  fight 

The  storm  with  coat  tails  flying  like  a  kite, 

And  help  each  other  round  the  corner  turn 

While  their  sore  hearts  for  vestal  comforts  yearn. 

The  Solitary  in  his  bachelor  home 

Lolls  by  the  hearth  flame  with  a  chatty  tome, 

In  dressing  gown  and  slippers  soft  and  warm, 

Quite  cosily  fixed  and  undisturbed  by  the  storm. 

His  mastiff  lounges  by  with  half-closed  eyes, 

And  shows  no  sign  of  life,  nor  wish  to  rise; 

The  flames  within  the  hearth  form  curious  dreams, 

The  great  logs  crackle,  and  most  human  seems 

The  shadow  of  the  fire  upon  the  wall, 

That  tends  to  cheer  the  heart  more  than  appall 

Like  an  intangible  companion  nigh, 

Or  mute  that  cannot  even  vent  a  sigh. 

He  watches  how  the  wavering  firelight  gleams; 

He  listens  to  the  clock  tick,  and  he  dreams. 

Out  of  the  hearth  within  a  puff  of  smoke 
Spry  Fancy  skips,  and  with  his  wand  does  poke 
The  logs,  and  changes  them  to  magic  dreams. 
A  pretty  Christmas  tree  appears,  it  seems, 
Adorned  with  multicolored  balls  and  gifts; 
With  tinsel,  cornucopias  and  rifts 
Of  lovely  trinkets,  while  around  the  tree 
A  group  of  children  dance  and  shout  with  glee. 


Sweet  vestal  scene !    What  happiness  is  here ! 
The  Solitary  dotes  and  sheds  a  tear, 
Self-pitying  a  heart  that  never  knew 
Such  radiant  scenes  as  these  which  meet  his  view. 


The  father  enters,  dressed  as  Santa  Claus, 
And  the  delighted  children  with  applause 
Greet  him,  and  crowd  about  to  see  the  sack 
Of  presents  that  he  carries  on  his  hack. 
Saint  Nicholas  discloses  gifts  for  all: 
A  hobby  horse  for  Jack,  a  gun  for  Paul; 
A  doll  for  Mary  and  a  book  for  Ann, 
A  horn  for  Bobby  and  a  ball  for  Dan. 
When  all  the  presents  are  distributed, 
His  bag  old  Santa  shoulders,  bobs  his  head, 
And  vanishes  with  the  jingling  of  a  bell. 
"A  merry  Christmas!"  cries  he.     "And  farewell!" 

But  dreams,  like  joy  and  life  of  man,  must  end; 
And,  once  that  they  have  passed,  nought  may  amend. 
So  does  this  dream  of  Christmas  fade  and  leave 
The  Solitary  in  his  chair  to  grieve 
Before  the  ghoulish  fire,  that  seems  to  grin 
Maliciously  and  warms  his  sinking  chin. 
The  windows  rattle,  moans   a  ghostly  wind; 
The  shadows  dance,  and  weird  thoughts  haunt  the  mind; 
The  mastiff  lifts  his  head  and  pricks  his  ears 
As  though  a  supernatural  voice  he  hears; 
And  once  again  the  wind  outside  does  moan, 
"You  are  alone !  you  are  alone — alone !" 
At  each  tick  of  the  clock  a  minute  dies. 
The  Solitary  listens  and  he  sighs. 


48 


Again  spry  Fancy  skips  from  out  the  fire; 

His  wand  he  waves,  and  the  flames  leap  up  higher— 

Till  lo!  another  Christmas  scene  unfolds! 

The  Solitary  rubs  his  eyes — beholds ! 

A  drunken  father  in  a  tenement  room 
Snores  by  a  rugged  table  in  the  gloom, 
An  empty  flask  of  whiskey  at  his  head. 
A  dying  mother  in  a  caved-in  bed 
Is  staring  at  the  filth  upon  the  wall; 
And  a  small  son,  wrapt  in  a  tattered  shawl, 
With  a  wan  visage,  prematurely  old, 
Is  trembling  in  the  corner  from  the  cold, 
And  sobbing  with  a  heart  full  of  despair. 
Disguised  as  Santa  Claus,  Death  enters  there. 
His  skull  wears  a  false  beard,  his  fleshless  back 
Bears  up  a  heavy,  black  and  bulging  sack. 
Death  empties  his  great  sack  upon  the  floor. 
Out  tumble  heart-aches,  woes  and  pains  galore. 
"A  Merry  Christmas !"  laughs  he.     "Curse  you  all !" 
He  leaves  his  sack  and  fades  into  the  wall. 


The  Solitary  wakens  with  a  start; 
The  flames  leap  up,  the  hideous  dreams  depart, 
To  but  give  place  to  other  ghastly  woes. 
A   newsboy  shivers  coatless  in  the  snows; 
Beside  a  casket  black  a  widow  wails; 
An  old  hag  rummages  in  garbage  pails; 
An  infant's  heart  stops  beating  in  its  breast; 
A  fair  maid's  fickle  lips  a  fool  has  pressed; 
In  hospitals  the  sick  and  suffering  moan; 
And  on  the  battlefield  the  wounded  groan. 


49 


"A  merry  Christmas !"  the  impertinent  wind 
Yells,  "To  the  sorrows  of  the  world  be  blind!" 
The  snow  falls  thick  and  fast  out  on  the  street; 
The  people  homeward  plod  with  weary  feet; 
Night  like  enveloping  sadness  settles  down, 
And  wraps  in  his  black  coat  the  great  white  town; 
The  ponderous  bell  within  the  old  church  tower 
Swings  to  and  fro  and  mellowly  booms  the  hour. 

"Oh,  let  us  not  forget  on  Christmas  day 
The  poor  and  suffering;  but  let  us  pray 
That  from  their  troubles  they  delivered  be; 
For  every  heart  has  not  such  joy  as  we !" 
So  dreams  the  Solitary  by  the  fire, 
And  pokes  the  logs  until  the  flames  leap  higher, 

The  mastiff  suddenly  rises  from  the  floor. 
A  knock  is  heard;  some  one  is  at  the  door. 
Before  the  Solitary  can  arise, 
A  stranger  enters,  to  his  dumb  surprise, 

And  asks  if  he  the  chimney's  warmth  may  share. 
He  silently  crosses  to  a  fireside  chair; 
Then  taking  a  cigar,  he  strikes  a  match 
And  watches  how  the  little  flame  does  catch; 
Lights  his  cigar  and  muses  on  the  fire, 
Watching  the  flames  alternately  leap  higher. 

"A  merry  Christmas,"  greets  he  in  a  while 
And  with  an  effort  forces  a  wan  smile. 
"Tis  very  pleasant  here  before  the  hearth. 
Faith,  I  believe  no  pleasanter  spot's  on  earth !" 

His  name  the  Solitary  cannot  guess. 
"My  name,"  the  stranger  says,  "is  Loneliness." 


50 


OLD   TRUTHS. 

Everything  that  now  seems  new 
Is  not  necessarily  true. 
Do  not  on  the  old  truths  war. 
Sneering,  "I've  heard  them  before". 
What  is  true  is  always  true, 
And  though  old,  yet  ever  new. 
Little  worth  while  may  be  bred 
That  has  not  been  already  said. 


FAMILIAR  SCENES. 

Ah,  fair  scenes  often  visited. 
That  once  her  spirit  graced! 
Once  more  in  memory  I  wed 
Your  beauty  long  defaced! 

Again  I  see  her  golden  curls 
(Oft  tangled  with  the  winds)  ; 
Again  of  love  the  streamlet  purls, 
And  specious  Romance  blinds ! 

Oh,  rose  of  romance  here  entombed, 

I  look  for  thee  in  vain. 

Sweet  face  that  haunts  me,  I  am  doomed 

Alone  to  pace  this  lane. 

Ah,  never  more  shall  I  be  thrilled 
As  in  the  sunlit  past? 
Some  demon  has  that  romance  chilled, 
And  June  breathes  autumn's  blast! 


Ah  God!  will  never  it  return? 
How  can  perfection  die? 
The  heart  that  sang,  alas,  shall  burn — 
Must  pay  now  with  a  sigh ! 

Oh,  Wisdom,  how  I  curse  your  eyes, 
That  taught  me  how  to  weep ! 
Aye,  I  could  smile  ere  I  was  wise 
But  grief  now  haunts  my  sleep! 

Skies  that  remind  me  of  her  eyes, 
May  storms  becloud  your  face ! 
I'll  solace  find  but  in  my  sighs, 
And  comfort  in  disgrace! 

Yet  very  little's  changed,  it  seems, 
In  the  scene's  outward  grace; 
But,  God !  —  how  different  the  dreams 
That  once  enwrapt  this  place ! 

The  inner  beauty's  disappeared ! 
A  smiling  mask  remains ! 
And  all  to  which  I  was  endeared 
In  vanished  years,  —  now  pains ! 

Had  I  ne'er  loved,  I  could  not  mourn 
The  false  and  transient  dream: 
Had  I  ne'er  loved,  the  joy  then  born 
Would  ne'er  have  blest  this  stream ! 

Though  to  the  winds  I  must  complain, 
And  wring  my  hands  now,  doomed ! — 
Heaven  I  thank  amidst  my  pain 
For  happiness  entombed. 


52 


THE   SEA-GULL. 

Ah,  snow-white  gull,  poised  o'er  the  azure  sea ! 

How  dreamily 

You  soar 

Up  to  the  heavens,  or 

Float  downwards  now  on  rigid  wing 

To  graze  the  gasping  bosom  of  the  wave; 

Then  fling 

Yourself  with  sweeping  pinions  heavenward  once  more, 

Elements  of  eternity  to  brave ! 

Most  graceful  gull,  say  what  a  happy  life  is  thine, 

Soaring  here  all  the  day 

Above  the  sea, 

Watching  the  dancing  waters  at  their  play; 

Suspended  in  the  free. 

Inhaling  from  below 

The  wafted  brine 

That  lusty  breezes  blow ! 

You  are  a  Poet,  dipping  toward  the  sea, 

But  rarely  landing  on  its  breast  for  long. 

The  Sea  may  rage  and  thunder  forth  its  song; 

Yet  unconcerned  you  sweep 

Aye  merrily 

Far  o'er  the   troubled   deep; 

But  ne'er  become  a  part 

Of  all  that  tribulation 

And  fretful  animation 

That  in  the  billows  leap 

As  in  the  human  heart. 


53 


Lend  me  your  wings,  thou  most  contented  bird; 

And  I  shall  sweep 

Above  the  bounding  deep, 

While  on  the  rocks  the  syren  sings, 

And  Madness  springs 

Within  the  foam  atop  the  wave; 

And  demons  rave, 

Careening  in  a  wild  dance  on  the  shore, 

Where  breakers   roar 

And  Earth's  jagged  crags  with  Ocean's  mountains  war. 


Lend  me  your  wings,  fair  Sea-gull  swift  and  free; 

And  I  shall  daunt  the  boisterous  sea. 

Rocking   amid  a   tempest  high, 

Sequestered  in  the  solitudes 

Of  grand  Infinity's  boundless  sky 

Where  the  cloud, 

Very    proud, 

In  the  breathlessness  broods 

Of  space; 

And  the  wild  winds  sigh, 

And  the  winds  they  cry 

As  through  Heaven's  vastnesses  they  race. 

Lend  me  your  wings,  O  happy,  happy  bird ! 
Lend  me  the  spirit  of  your  mad,  wild  flight! 
Swifter  and  higher  soar,  soul  purely  white, 
Than  singing  Rhyme 
Or  keenest-bladed  Word! 


This  moment  now  the  heavenly  steeps  you  climb — 

So  far,  you  almost  fade  from  sight! 

O  thou  high-spirited  bird, 

At  what  ineffable  height 

You   soar ! 

Of  such  a  reckless  daring  I  have  never  heard 

In  all  my  life  before ! 

I'm  but  a  white-cap  leaping  vainly  toward  the  sky 

Upon  life's  restless  sea. 

You   like   an   angel   seem, 

Fair  Sea-gull,  as  through  heaven  you  fly — 

Or  like  a  dream 

Of  Argus  sleeping  with  a  sleepless  eye. 

Now  on  immovable  pinions  you  swoop  by, 

And  I  can  scarcely  follow  your  swift  flight, — 

Till   (ere  I  realize  it)   you  on  the  wave  alight. 


55 


JUNE. 

Ah,  June,  what  fragrance  on  the  breezes  blown 

From  dewy  flowers  and  from  woodland  dells! 

I  hear  the  elfins  ring  their  mellow  bells 

Among  the  leafy  boughs;  and  all  alone 

The  spring  purls,  trickling  down  those  rocks  o'ergrown 

With  velvet  moss;  while  yonder,  hearken,  wells 

The  brooklet's  song,  and  in  the  distance  swells 

The  cataract's  muffled  thunder  and  the  groan 

The  pines  make  when  they  bend  before  a  blast. 

The  songs  I  kept  repressed  here  in  my  heart 

Are  being  sung  by  all  the  birds  at  last. 

Ah,  may  they  never  from  these  wilds  depart 

Until  the  mountains  topple  and  the  sun 

Grows  cold,  and  Man's  work  on  the  earth  is  done. 


ODE  TO  THE  TEMPEST. 

Tempest,  wild  spirit  reeling  through  the  clouds, 

Listen  now  to  the  music  of  my  harp; 

Harken  awhile  for  one  shrill  note  and  sharp 
That  soars  above  the  clamor  of  Earth's  crowds ! 

That  note  's  my  solitary  voice — my  ode 

To  you,  oh  indefatigable  wind, 
Born  of  my  heart's  emotion  on  Life's  road, 

O'er  which  I  grope  with  my  staff,  weak  and  blind. 
List  for  the  music  of  that  heart-felt  ode 

And  mark  that  I,  who  sing  it,  am  purblind. 


56 


Are  you  a  maniac  with  tussled  hair, 

Raging  through  space,  escaped  from  some  caged  lair; 

Making  with  mouth  a  foam  unearthly  growls? 

Agony  spears  you,  and  then  Franticness  howls, 
And  your  eyes  in  their  sockets  roll  and  stare. 


Perhaps  you  an  Arabian  charger  are 
Galloping  over  the  hot  desert  sands, 
A  demigod  on  your  back,  whose  awful  hands 
Now  hurl  obstreperous  thunderbolts  afar 
And  move  the  quiet  skies  to  bestial  war. 


Or  are  you,  Tempest,  maybe  a  grand  chord 
Of  awful  music  from  a  master's  score, 
Like  breakers  rumbling  on  a  rugged  shore; 

Struck  on  sweet  strings,  expressing  more  than  word; 
And  doomed  to  haunt  the  spaces  evermore? 


Are  you  a  nightmare  from  a  drunkard's  sleep 
With  snaky  seaweed  hair,  some  missing  teeth, 

A  green  complexion,  eyes  that  never  weep 

And  knotty  nose  with  hanging  jaw  beneath,—  • 

Busily  piling  dark  clouds  heap  on  heap? 


Maybe  you  are  a  super-woodman's  ghost 
Chopping  down  trees  with  an  invisible  axe; 

Forgotten  souls  of  an  advancing  host, 

Lustful  for  rapine;  or  a  plague  that  wracks 
Whole  towns,  first  entering  by  the  chimney  cracks. 


57 


Are  you  the  sacred  anger  of  great  Jove, 
On  Mount  Olympus  seated  on  his  throne? 

Are  you  the  trembling  rage  of  jealous  Love, 
Who  bleeding  on  a  bed  of  thorns  doth  moan? 

Are  you  the  passion  of  a  poet's  song, 

That  throbbing  soars  among  the  listening  stars? 
Are  you  the  endless  feud  'twixt  Right  and  Wrong? 

The  struggles  of  weak  man?    The  breath  of  Mars? 

Were  I  imbued  with  such  invisible  fire, 
Naught  would  be  out  of  reach  of  my  desire! 


58 


THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE. 

Great  Eagle  of  America,  rest  now 

Atop  the  tall  crags  like  a  thundercloud, 
Or,  like  an  arrow  from  an  Indian's  bow, 

Streak  heaven,  high  as  the  thoughts  of  the  proud! 

The  sunlight  bright  shall  follow  on  your  path; 

The  winds  cease  kissing  the  fair  clouds,  to  chase 
You  raging  through  the  skies  like  a  god's  wrath; 

While  silent  mountains  look  on  at  the  race. 

Soar  far  above  the  abject  realms  of  earth ! 

Sometimes  look  upward  at  the  stars,  that  light 
The  ways  of  man,  and  dream  of  death  and  birth; 

Or,  by  the  trumpet  of  triumphant  right 

Commune  with  God,  the  reason  of  existence!. 
Sometimes  gaze  down  upon  the  vales  and  hills, 

And  feel  a  prayer  for  them  who  with  persistence 
Battle  with  life  until  the  struggle  kills ! 

Dwell  nearby  Heaven;  yet  forget  not  man! 

Keep  your  sins  mortal;  but  immortal  be 
Your  virtues  as  the  universal  plan, 

Projecting  onward  through  eternity! 

An  emblem  of  proud  Liberty  you  are, 

Flying  unhindered  through  the  boundless  space. 

What  do  you  know  of  Slavery's  chains  afar 
While  through  Heaven's  freedom  angel-like  you  race? 

What  do  you  know  of  prison-bars,  who  fly 

In  the  roofless  palace  of  infinity? 
Ah,  what,  mid  the  illimitable  sky, 

Do  you  know  of  the  dungeon's  agony? 


59 


LIFE  AND  THE  SOUL. 

Let  life  rage  on  like  stormy  seas  on  me,  the  stoic  shore. 

In  vain  against  my  earthen  breast  the  mountainous 
billows  pour. 

Like  rocks  amid  the  warring  foam  my  staunch  con 
victions  stand, 

Immovable,  defiant,  calm,  invulnerable,  grand. 

I  smile  on  each  tempestuous  wave  that  dares  on  me  to 
war, 

Crying,  "Foolish  sea,  'tis  useless  to  attack  this  stedfast 
shore." 


SHELLEY. 

Shelley,  thou  godly  man,  thou  super-voice; 

Fraught  with  the  elements  your  melodies  are; 

Your  dreams  like  beams  are  sprinkled  from  a  star. 
Sing  on !  oh  thunder,  lightning,  and  rejoice ! 
Your  harmonies  are  passionate  and  choice; 

They  race  through  heaven  on  Phoebus's  golden  car, 

Reverberate  amid  the  clouds  afar; 
And  kingly  is  that  sweetly  awful  noise. 
Your  eyes  are  flames,  that  burn  the  walls  perverse 

Of  ignorance ;  your  dreams  outlive  the  sun ! 

You  know  all: — how  the  great  world  was  begun. 
And  how  infinity  shall  it  immerse. 

In  space  ethereal  forevermore 

Unchallenged  and  unconquerable  soar! 


60 


MAN'S  FINITE  YEARS. 

The  trails  of  all  men  soon  must  end 
Beyond  the  dreary  hills  of  life. 
What  matter  if  we  lose  a  friend? 
The  grave  shall  end  the  worst  of  strife. 

We  proffer  drink.     The  beggar  sips — 
And  suffers  longer  in  the  dust. 
Why  force  we  water  to  his  lips? 
Death's  kiss  is  sweet,  and  die  he  must. 

The  money  bags  man  loves  to  hold 
And  gloat  on  with  his  greedy  eyes, 
What  will  avail  their  dazzling  gold 
When  he  beneath  the  greensward  lies? 

And  what  is  Fame?     An  empty  name 
That  never  was  save  in  a  dream. 
The  great  and  small  must  die  the  same, 
Though  some  like  gods  immortal  seem. 

And  what  is  Love?     A  transient  joy, 
Paid  for  with  sacrifice  and  pain, 
That  Death  must  with  the  dirt  alloy 
As  with  all  else  that  men  attain. 


61 


KEATS. 

John  Keats,  what  fairy  melodies  sang  you, 
Seated  beneath  a  greenwood  tree  in  June? 
Within  my  ears  reechoes  each  old  tune. 

The  nightingale  warbles  in  a  dell  of  dew; 

The  autumn  ode  reverberates  anew 
In  memory,  until  in  dreams  I  swoon. 
I  thank  you,  mighty  singer,  for  this  boon — 

To  read  your  lays  and  sing  my  praises  too. 

You  are  the  master,  Keats,  of  fantasy. 

I  read  your  verse,  and  far  from  earth  I  soar, 
Where  only  stars  shine  versed  in  mystic  lore, 

And  dreams  join  hands  with  sleep  and  poesy. 
There  let  me  dwell  aye  with  perpetual  youth, 
Knowing  naught  else  then  save  that  "beauty's  truth". 


DEMOCRACY. 

Democracy,  your  eyes  are  bright; 

Your  form  is  wondrous  fair; 
Your  mind  is  Truth;  your  soul  is  Right, 

Your  tongue's  each  word  a  prayer. 

Oh,  like  Columbia's  rocks  you  stand, 

Oblivious  of  the  storm ! 
In  vain  the  frothing  billows  grand 

Sweep  o'er  your  stoic  form. 

Your  arms  out-stretched  in  welcome  are 

To  meet  each  laboring  bark; 
You  are  the  pilot's  guiding  star — 

His  beacon   in   the   dark! 


62 


The  people  are  your  corner-stones, 

Your  pillars,  roofs  and  walls, 
Where  lie  interred  old  Slavery's  bones 

And   Freedom  stalks  the  halls; 

Where  Justice  sits  upon  her  throne, 

Law's  scepter  in  her  hand, 
And   Peace   smiles  down   from   Heaven's  zone 

To  bless  her  native  land. 

Democracy,   forever  smile 

On  old  Columbia's  shore. 
And  Nation,  venerable  pile, 

Stand  fast  forevermore ! 


A  MANHATTAN  SUNSET. 

The  sun  sinks  like  a  God  on  fire  behind 

Manhattan's  skyscrapers.     Ah,  within  the  mind 

What  horrible  phantasmagoria 

Could  e'er  produce  on  man's  heart  this  same  awe ! 

Suppose  those  flames  celestial  once  should  catch 

Upon  those  towering  structures,  like  a  match 

That  Vulcan,  to  flame  cities  into  ashes, 

Strikes  on  the  skies  until  the  lightning  flashes. 

Hair-raising  groans  would  fly  up  to  the  skies 

On  crippled  wings,  with  moans  and  shrieks  and  cries ; 

Then  Death  would  like  the  pale-faced  moon  appear, 

And  Time  alone  would  stay  to  build  the  bier. 


63 


SLUMBERING  MANHATTAN. 

What  is  the  silence  of  the  forest  deep 
Compared  to  ye,  Manhattan,  when  asleep? 
Then  millions  slumber  in  your  Titan  breast, 
Forgetful  of  the  world,  in  blissful  rest; 
Millions  of  aching  hearts  and  tearful  eyes 
Dream  underneath  the  star-bespangled  skies; 
Millions  of  weary  limbs  and  heavy  heads 
A  few  hours'  peace  obtain  stretched  in  their  beds. 
What  then  is  proud  Ambition  to  the  soul? 
The  billows  of  vast  sleep  above  it  roll. 
What  then  are  wordly  cares  or  earthly  joys? 
No  more  nor  less  than  children's  broken  toys. 
Vengeance  is  all  forgotten,  duty  fled, 
The  past  and  present  with  the  future  dead. 
Dreams,  even,  are  but  shadows  of  past  dreams, 
And  life  flows  on  unseen  like  winter  streams. 
At  such  an  hour,  poised  on  oblivion's  brink, 
Fame,  wealth  and  lore  to  nothingness  do  sink; 
But  all  eternity  is  at  our  feet, 
And  face  to  face  with  God  we  pigmies  meet. 


64 


ON  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE. 

Walk  with  me  on  the  bridge  and  gaze  across 
The  river  at  the  towers  of  New  York. 
Those  mighty  buildings,  stretching  toward  the  sky, 
Afford   a  wondrous  sight  to  muse  upon. 
See  how  the  smoke,  like  imitation  clouds, 
Drifts  lazily,  arising  from  the  stacks 
Of  factories !     How  many  thousands  dwell 
In  those  tall  buildings !  and  how  many  hands 
There  help  to  turn  the  wheel  of  industry! 
How  many  souls  are  sorrowing  behind 
The  sunlight  on  those  countless  window  panes ! 
What  thousands  dream  of  what  may  never  be! 
How  many  hearts  are  heavy,  filled  with  care ! 
How  many  hope  ! — how  many  more  despair ! 
How  few  know  true  content  of  all  those  there! 
Ambitions,  aspirations  and  desires 
Incalculable  and  unsatisfied 
They  feel.     It  takes  but  a  few  beams  of  joy 
To  serve  this  cityful,  where  millions  live 
That  will  tomorrow  rot  within  the  grave. 

Look  down  a  moment  on  the  river's  wide 
Expanse,  if  it  will  not  you  dizzy  make, 
And  watch  that  tiny  tugboat  pass  beneath — 
In  truth,  an  energetic  child  of  steam. 
The  iron  ships  that  carry  passengers 
And  cargo  o'er  the  wave  to  foreign  shores, 
Without  its  aid  are  helpless  when  in  port. 
So  do  the  great  depend  upon  the  small, 
And  each  part's  necessary  to  the  whole. 

Let  us  return  now  to  the  shore  once  more 
And  our  pet  interests  with  the  crowd's  ally — 
As  it  were,  put  a  cog  in  the  machine. 

65 


LINCOLN. 

Lincoln,  there  is  no  greatness  truly  great 
That  lacks  simplicity.     A  noble  heart 
Must  be  of  common  clay  as  well  a  part — 
Not  merely  heavenly.     The  twain  must  mate 
(Heaven  and  earth)   ere  man  can  conquer  fate. 
Nature  shall  ever  grander  be  than  art. 
The  hand  of  God — the  seed,  the  lightning  dart — 
At  will  destroy  can,  or  anew  create 

God's  noblest  plan,  a  great  and  simple  man. 
And  Lincoln,  you  by  God's  brain  so  were  planned, 
So  sculptured  by  that  mighty  Artist's  hand 

To  be  the  offspring  of  His  noblest  plan. 
The  proud,  the  vain,  among  the  honored   great, 
On  you,  a  simple  mortal,  Lincoln,  wait. 


LARCHMONT. 

Oh,  Larchmont,  dear  haunt  of  my  frolicsome  youth; 

Lovely  shore,  kissed  by  billows  of  Long  Island  Sound, 
Where  the  sea-gulls  like  visions  seraphic,  forsooth, 

O'er  the  nymphs  of  the  wave  circle  round  and  around  ! 

Like  mermaids  reclining  asleep  on  thy  shore, 
With  graceful  tails  curved,  and  most  wondrously  fair; 

Thy  immortal  rockss  Larchmont,  remain  evermore 
Beloved  by  Apollo,  who  smiles  on  them  there. 

Ghosts  of  memory  haunt  thy  familiar  scenes  still. 

Ah,  how  sweetly  reecho  the  voices  I  knew! 
Like  the  sunset  their  music  departs  o'er  the  hill, 

And  now  silence  remains,  and  oh,  loneliness  too. 


66 


THE  GARDEN  OF  MY  DREAMS. 

I  dreamt  a  garden  path  I  walked  along 
And  gazed  around  me  on  a  sea  of  flowers; 
A  bird  upon  a  rosebush  sang  a  song; 
I  stood  and  listened  to  him  sing  for  hours. 
It  seemed  the  flowers  waved  without  an  end 
Through  awful  spaces  of  eternity! 
Ah,  naturally  then,  I  yearned  to  bend 
And  pick  one  from  the  garden  tenderly. 
I  knew  not  which  to  choose,  so  fair  were  all, 
Until  a  modest  pansy  caught  my  eye, 
Hidden  among  some  stately  amaranths  tall, 
Content  with  but  a  peep  at  the  blue  sky. 
When  from  the  hiding  place  in  which  it  grew 
I  plucked  it,  lo!  it  changed,  Love,  into  you! 


AN    INVOCATION   TO  THE    MUSE. 

Ah  Muse,  I  conjure  thee 

To  send  me  from  the  paradise  of  dreams 

A  pleasant   fantasy 

Of  fays,  and  knights  in  clanking  panoply, 

Of  blushing  amaranths  and  laughing  streams; 

For  I  am  sad  and  weary-limbed  tonight 

And  long  for  soothing  dreams — 

Oh,  sweet  Contentment  has  now  taken  flight, 

And  I  am  drowsy-eyed,  it  seems ! 

Now  on  thy  silver  lyre 

Play  me  a  soft  and  tender  melody, 

And  set  my  heart  afire; 

Picture  in  song  more  than  I  can  desire; 

With  lofty  strains,  that  soar  eternally, 

Promise,  O  Muse,  more  than  I  dare  ask  for, 

That  I  may  solaced  be 

And  happily  may  rest  for  evermore, 

Spellbound  in  dulcet  sounds  of  glee ! 

FRAGMENT. 

No  wind  that  night  was  stirring  anywhere — 

The  zephyrs  slept  in  the  cups  of  the  flowers, 

A  witch  had  cast  a  spell  upon  the  air, 

And  latent  were  the  elemental  powers; 

Naught    stirred,    save    moonbeams — naught    but    golden 

showers-; 

The  leaves  hung  motionless  upon  the  trees, 
The  minutes  dragged  reluctant  through  the  hours; 
The  world  slept,  mirrored  in  the  slumbering  seas, — 
Oh,  nowhere  was  a  faint  suggestion  of  a  breeze! 

68 


MARIANNA. 

Marianna  went  a-maying. 

Breezes  round  her  skirts  were  playing, 

Kissing  her  rose  lips,  and  blowing 

Through  her  graceful  tresses  flowing. 

Mountains  seemed  like  giants  dreaming. 

Marianna's  eyes  were  beaming. 

In  the  fields  the  crickets  singing 

Round  her  nimble   feet  were   springing. 

Sing,  O,  sing  her  grace  and  beauty ! 

Such  is  but  a  poet's  duty. 

Sun  a  halo  forms  above  her. 

Oh,  to  see  her  is  to  love  her ! 

Through  the  daisies  she  comes  skipping; 

Like  a  fairy  she  goes  tripping. 

Marianna !     Marianna ! 

We  will  strew  your  path  with  flowers ! 

Laughter's  songs  will  haste  the  hours! 

We  with  roses  shall  assail  you, 

And  with  berries  we  shall  hail  you — 

Berries  redder  than  your  mouth,  dear; 

Roses  blooming  like  your  youth,  dear. 

Marianna !     Marianna ! 

In  the  wind  the  spring  is  crying, 

And  your  hair's  like  sunlight  flying. 

Marianna !     Marianna ! 

In  the  woods  a  cave  I  know,  dear, 

Whither  you  and  I  may  go,  dear. 

O'er  its  door  the  moss  is  creeping. 

Venus  in  its  depths  is  sleeping. 


Nearby  sings  a  brooklet  roving, 
Nature  fashioned  it  for  loving. 
Marianna,  come  with  me,  dear. 
And  this  sylvan  bower  see,  dear. 
There  the  heart  will  cease  its  fretting; 
There  will  be  a  sweet  forgetting. 
Through  the  meadows  no  more  rove,  dear; 
Languish  in  the  arms  of  love,  dear. 

MISERY. 

Oh,  the  moon  shone  pale  through  the  branches  gaunt 
In  the  midst  of  the  shadowy  tanglewood, 
And  the  dancing  starbeams  came  to  haunt 
The  wilds  that  the  sunset  had  bathed  in  blood. 

It  was  here  I  came  with  my  false,  false  love, 
To  kiss  her  lips  and  fondle  her  hair; 
To  this  spot  fantastic  I  chanced  to  rove, 
Where  the  pinetrees  scented  the  indolent  air. 

And  sad  sang  a  bird  in  an  old  oak  tree, 
And  weeping  fell  the  waterfall; 
The  river  flowed  mournful  towards  the  sea, 
And  a  sorrowful  owl  began  to  call; 

The  mountains  sat  round  like  brooding  ghosts; 

The  lake  was  black  as  the  devil's  ink, 

And  the  trees  appeared  like  advancing  hosts 

That  had  mustered  for  battle  on  the  lake's  cold  brink. 

Oh,  who  was  this  maiden  I  held  in  my  arms? 
Oh,  who  was  this  fool  that  reposed  on  my  breast? 
She  cast  a  strange  spell  on  me  with  her  foul  charms! 
'Twas  Misery  writhing — a  thing  unblest! 

70 


THE   ROSE. 

Red  as  my  lady's  lips  you  are, 

As  fiery  as  yonder  star, 

The  color  of  the  wine  I  drink, 

Like  sunset's  flames  that  westward  sink, 

The  ruby  on  my  lady's  finger, 

Youth's  tints  that  on  her  cheeks  still  linger, 

The  devil's  brilliant  cloak  and  hood. 

And  the  Creator's  crimson  blood. 


PRESIDENT  HARDING. 

Out  of  American  clay  they  molded  him; 
Out  of  American  dreams  they  forged  his  mind; 
They  planned  his  heart  in  years  long  past  and  dim: 
The  people's  spirit  mirrored  there  we  find. 

Lead  on,  great  thought  of  God,  through  cloud-crowned 

years, 

And  teach  us  to  forget  and  find  new  hope; 
Teach  us  to  smile  in  the  midst  of  our  tears ! 
Blind  at  Eternity's  abyss  we  grope ! 

The  light  of  Progress  flashes  from  your  eyes; 
The  awe  of  Wisdom  sits  on  your  calm  brow; 
Truth,  Vision's  gift,  promotes  you  to  the  skies: 
One  word  escapes  your  lips,  the  pregnant  NOW ! 


71 


THE  RIVAL  OF  POESY. 

I    worshipped    Poesy's    clear    voice; 

She  sang  so  sweetly  for  me. 
I  never  had  another  choice, 

For  she  it  was  who  bore  me. 

She  chanted  like  an  April  bird, 
Her  countenance  was  heaven; 

Her  songs  for  many  years  I  heard, 
They  were  a  constant  leaven. 

But  that  was  ere  we,  Helen,  met. 

The  hour  I'll  e'er  remember! 
It  vibrates  in  my  memory  yet; 

It  is  a  quenchless  ember. 

A  far  more  wondrous  dream  were  you 
Than  any  I  had  dreamed,  dear; 

For  you  a  dream  that  had  come  true 
Or  living  poem  seemed,  dear. 


72 


A  SERENADE. 

I  sing  of  all  the  agony 
That  Love  has  buried  in  my  breast, 
Of  dreams  and  dreams  that  can  not  be, 
And  endless  nights  devoid  of  rest; 

I  sing  of  death;  I  sing  of  life, 
Of  mountains  hoar  and  budding  flowers; 
I   sing  of  joy;   I  sing  of  strife — 
Till  I  forget  the  wordly  hours. 

Open  your  window  to  my  eye ! 
Waft  me  your  kisses  on  the  wind ! 
And  I'll  forsake  a  starry  sky 
To  follow  Love,  though  he  be  blind. 

I  hunt  the  heart  your  bosom  holds; 
I  hear  it  beating  miles  away; 
And  when  the  earth,  the  night  enfolds, 
I   sleep  not  while  I   wait  the  day. 

Love,  I  shall  die  of  weariness, 
Unless  you  tell  your  heart  to  me! 
Love,  I  shall  steal  your  loveliness 
And  hide  it  in  an  old  oak  tree ! 

Beneath  your  window,  Love,  I  sing, 
Accompanied  by  my  guitar — 
Love,  would  I  were  a  skylark's  wing, 
Or  beam  of  some  bright  evening  star! 

So  I  might  through  your  window  fly, 
And  kiss  the  blushes  from  your  cheek, 
Returning  to  the  boundless  sky 
Where  souls  need  no  words  when  they  speak. 


73 


EXILED.  , 

The  seagulls  drifted  like  aimless  thought 

Over  the  choppy  sea; 
The  shore's  gray  cliffs  the  billows   fought. 

And  the  winds  were  blowing  free. 

I  lay  on  the  shore  of  my  arid  isle 
And  fumbled  the  jeweled  sand, 

Whose  sparkling  grains,  with  time  to  beguile, 
I  sifted  through  my  hand. 

I  should  ne'er  awake  if  I  fell  asleep 

Here  by  the  roaring  sea. 
The  ocean  would  nearer  and  nearer  creep 

Till  its  waves  washed  over  me. 

Sorrow  was  raging  in  my  breast 

Like  a  storm  upon  the  sea, 
And  like  the  sun  disappeared  in  the  west, 

So  Hope  deserted  me. 

I  called  my  Love,  but  she  was  gone — 

Gone  down  into  the  sea ! 
I  looked  for  a  star,  but  there  was  none 

In  heaven  to  comfort  me! 


AH,  GOLDEN  DREAM  OF  YESTERDAY ! 

Ah,  golden  dream  of  yesterday ! 

Where  have  you,  traitor,  flown? 
Give  back  to  me  but  one  lost  ray, 

And  I  will  cease  to  moan! 

How  can  so  fair  a  face  be  false, 

So  bright  a  smile  unkind? 
Love  led  me  in  an  endless  waltz, 

And  he,  poor  fool,  was  blind. 

Ah,  had  I  never  loved  so  blindly, 
I  ne'er  would  have  repined ! 

Ah,  had  you  never  smiled  so  kindly, 
I  would  not  have  been  blind ! 

Oh,  why  does  God  make  devils  over 

To  so  like  angels  seem? 
Oh,  why  must  a  well  meaning  lover 

Enslaved  be  by  a  dream? 

I  curse  the  shadows  of  the  past, 
And  bless  its  transient  rays; 

I  turn  from  the  past's  wintry  blast, 
And  plough  through  wintrier  ways! 


MARTHA  AT  THE  PIANO. 

How  gracefully  her  fingers  seem  to  play 
Over  the  keyboard !     Fair  as  ivory 
Are  her  sweet  hands  and  like  a  memory 
The  smile  that  lingers  ere  it  dies  away 
Upon  her  lips,  dear  rosebuds  of  the  May ! 
Her  auburn  tresses  like  a  curling  sea 
Are  billowing  o'er  shoulders,  fancy-free, 
And  now  her  voice  ascends  like  dawning  day 
To  dwell  among  the  angels  in  the  sky. 
Wafted  on  music  are  my  museful  dreams, 
And  up — up  with  her  song  they  seem  to  fly 
Until  they  reach  the  gates  of  love,  it  seems, 
When  all  sound  ceases,  and  within  my  chair 
I  hear  heart-echoes  of  a  vanished  air. 


MY  VIRGIN  MARY. 

I  dreamt  a  dream  the  other  night: — Behold! 

You,  Helen,  on  the  wings  of  sleep  appeared! 

Rosy-cheeked  cherubim  with  trumpets  gold 

Your  coming  heralded,  and  angels  peered 

Down  from  their  thrones,  the  clouds,  to  smile  on  you; 

And  though  Night  had  not  yet  descended,  gleamed 

Some  stars  in  heaven,  tracing  on  the  blue 

Letters  of  gold,  that  spelled  aloft  (I  dreamed) 

This:  VIRGIN  MARY!     And  it  seemed  the  face 

Of  her  who  looked  at  me  within  my  sleep 

Was  you,  fair  Helen  hallowed  with  grace — 

Oh,  of  that  blessed  vision  I  drank  deep ! 

While   others  worship   saints   and  saviors  airy, 

I  worship  you — You  are  my  Virgin  Mary! 


76 


MY  HERMITAGE. 

Ah,  might  I  wend  with  Poesy 

To  some  secluded  sylvan  cave 

Where  I  from  life's  unrest  could  be 

In  peace  and  quiet — all  I  crave ! 

There,  deaf  to  crowds  that  rant  and  rave, 

I'd  tune  my  harp's  enchanted  strings, 

Disturbed  by  no  wild,  turbulent  wave, 

And  play  the  songs  that  nature  sings. 

There  unmolested  with  my  dreams, 
In  Poesy's  dear  arms  reclined, 
Forget  I  would  the  human  streams 
That  with  the  world  I  left  behind. 
And  weaving  fancies  in  my  mind, 
I'd  press  the  hand  of  Poesy 
Until  her  ruby  lips  I'd  find, 
Whose  kisses  dull  the  memory. 

Oh,  there  a  hermit  would  I  die. 
With  snowy  beard  dropped  to  my  feet; 
On   Poesy's  fair  breast  I'd  lie. 
And  drink  a  last  kiss  long  and  sweet. 
In   Heaven  when  again   we  meet, 
Transformed   to  lovely  seraphim, 
Her  with  a  blessed  harp  I'll  greet 
'Mid  stars  that  in  vast  ether  swim. 


77 


A  SONG  OF  IDLENESS. 

In  the  dark  cell  of  indolence  I  lie 
And  rattle  fancy's  chain, — each  link  a  dream — 
That  here  imprisons  me  till  I  may  die 
And  vanish  in  night  like  a  stellar  beam ! 

I've  worshipped  all  my  wasted  life  the  moon — 
The  moon  of  dreams  that  languishes  on  high. 
For  useless  dreams,  for  an  intangible  tune, 
For  idle  thoughts  that  evanesce  I  sigh ! 

What  are  the  flowers  and  the  streams  for,  O 
If  not  to  give  a  dreaming  idler  joy? 
What  use  are  winter  winds  and  storms  of  snow 
If  they  may  not  an  idler's  heart  annoy? 

Why  should  the  sun  all-glorious  ever  shine 
If  it  warmed  not  a  lazy  body's  blood? 
Why  should  the  birds  sing  in  the  summertime 
If  none  might  idly  listen  in  the  wood? 

Why  should  a  rose  give  forth  a  pleasing  scent 
If  none  could  waste  the  precious  time  to  smell  it? 
How  would  we  know  what  idleness,  sirs,  meant 
If  there  were  not  an  idler  here  to  tell  it? 

So  sing  a  song  to  indolence,  heigh-ho ! 
And  stretch  awhile  adreaming  in  the  sun. 
Oh,  bid  farewell  to  care  and  gloomy  woe, 
And  get  from  grim  old  life  a  little  fun ! 


78 


UNANSWERED. 

Why  do  I  sweat  with  mind  and  pen 
Composing  lines  of  poetry 
To  be  thrust  down  the  throats  of  men 
And  forced  upon  their  memory? 

The  world  has  sung  sufficient  songs 
To  last  it  for  so  many  years ! 
I  shall  not  right  its  ancient  wrongs 
Or  dry  its  unavoidable  tears. 

Would  I  not  to  society 

More  necessary  be,  did  I 

Sow  in  the  fields,  own  property, 

And  cease  descanting  of  the  sky? 

Oh,  ask  the  farmboy  on  the  hill 

Why  whistles  he  while  upward  climbing. 

If  he  an  answer  yield  you  will, 

You'll  know  why  I  persist  in  rhyming. 

Perhaps  he  should  not  truant  roam. 
He's  needed  in  the  valley  more 
To  till  the  fields  and  tend  the  home. 
Or  bargain  in  the  village  store. 

Has  he  right  to  forsake  his  duty, 
And  whistle  of  a  dream  fulfilled? 
Because  he  loves  God's  cheering  beauty, 
He  leaves  the  barren  land  untilled. 


79 


Since  loves  he  to  breathe  Heaven's  air, 
And  listen  to  the  glad  birds  sing, 
He  mounts  the  hill,  forsaking  care, 
And  kisses  the  hot  lips  of  spring. 

He  blows  on  a  melodious  reed 
And  imitates  the  birds'  sweet  songs. 
The  valley's  planes  have  gone  to  seed, 
Unrighted  are  World's  ancient  wrongs. 

Yet  still  he  plays,  and  still  I  write 
The  tunes  that  will  not  quit  the  heart, 
Until  descends   the  silent  night, 
And  fires  of  Heaven  at  last  depart. 


80 


AN  INDIAN  PRAYER. 

Look  upon  me,  great  Sun  Father,  seeming 
Like  a  river  of  the  heart's  blood  streaming 
Mid  the  heavens, — hearken  to  my  dreaming ! 
Father,  hear  my  humble  prayer ! 
Aye,  I  love  a  maiden  like  a  flower 
In  the  forest  kissed  by  sun  and  shower, 
And  beseech  that  Thou,  almighty  Power, 
Give  to  me  this  maiden  fair. 

Hark !    Within  the  wood  the  birds  are  singing ! 
O'er  yon  cliff  a  cataract  is  springing ! 
Echo  in  a  mountain  cave  is  ringing! 
What  do  all  these  voices  tell? 
They  the  maiden  of  my  heart  are  naming. 
They  her  virtuous  mind  and  heart  are  faming, 
Telling  of  her  cheeks  fair  blushes  flaming — 
Heavenly  Father,  it  is  well. 

Thou  amid  the  distant  skies  descending, 

That  bring'st  light  throughout  the  days  unending 

And  joy  to  my  people  aye  art  sending, 

Hearken  to  thy  son's  behest. 

Through  the  trees  the  hart  and  hind  are  moving, 

To  his  nest  and  mate  the  robin's  roving; 

All  the  wilderness  was  made  for  loving — 

Grant  me  her  that  I  love  best! 

I  upon  the  war-path  have  no  fearing, 
Yet  in  peace  am  gentle  and  endearing. 
God  of  Light,  upon  Thy  children  peering, 
As  Thou  cheerest  all.  cheer  me! 


81 


I've  a  wigwam  strong  and  warm  erected, 
That  will  be  most  cheerless  and  neglected 
Without  the  fair  squaw  that's  there  expected — 
Merciful,  my  Father,  be! 


DREAMLAND. 

O,  where  does  Dreamland  lie? 
Out  in  the  balmy  west 
Beneath  a  starry  sky! 

The  winds  go  there, 

The  streams  flow  there, 
And  thither  the  swallows  fly. 

O,  where  is  Dreamland,  say? 
In  the  hush  of  the  Occident 
Mid  fields  of  perennial  May! 

Our  longings  wing  there, 

Our  yearnings  sing  there, 
And  even  is  Sorrow  gay ! 

O,  where  is  the  Land  of  Dreams? 

Over  the  purple  hills 

Where  the  river  of  life's  blood  streams, 

And  the  load  ends, 

And  the  road  wends, 
And  the  moon  at  even  gleams ! 


82 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Ah  Irving,  pen  your  sketches  once  again 
Of  rural  England  picturesque  and  quaint ! 
Your  perfect  drawings  bear  no  common  taint. 

To  read  them  o'er  and  o'er  again  I'm  fain. 

Oh,  once  more  dream  your  way  through  sunny  Spain 
And  the  Alhambra  of  Granada  paint 
In  color  tints  so  fair,  with  joy  I  faint! 

Those  visions  I  recall  shall  never  wane; 

Those  sketches  Time  shall  ne'er  obliterate. 

They  have  been  bred  immortal  by  kind  fate, 
And  when  the  stars  grow  cold  and  cease  to  shine 

Amid  the  heaven's  vasty  canopy, 
Then — only  then — your  progeny  divine 

Will  be  forsaken  by  man's  memory! 


MACSWINEY. 

The  angels  sing  today  most  joyously: 
Another  martyr's  soul  ascends  the  sky. 
Our  Savior  Christ  the  Jews  did  crucify, 

And  beautiful  in  his  martyrdom  was  he, 

Bleeding  that  the  world  might  delivered  be. 
In  Jesus'  footsteps  with  uplifted  eye 
A  plain  man  follows — one  who  dares  to  die — 

Nay,  starve  for  Right,  that  Erin  may  be  free! 

MacSwiney,  future  generations  will 

Bless  you,  and  Fame  immortalize  you  too. 
Oh,  with  Saint  Patrick  on  a  halcyon  shore 

You  stand  and  gaze  with  love  on  Erin  still. 
Did  you  not  love  yourself  as  all  men  do? 
Ah,  yes ! — but  then  you  loved  your  country  more ! 


GOD  IN  NATURE. 

Within  the  forest's  solitude 
Now  the  lone  fisherman  with  his  rod 
Disturbs  the  stillness  of  the  lake, 
And  sees  the  mirrored  face  of  God. 

Along  the  road  there  slowly  wends 
The  farmer  with  his  load  of  hay, 
And,  looking  round  on  the  wide  world, 
He  sees  God  smiling  in  the  day. 

The  sturdy  worker  wields  his  scythe 
Among  the  fields  of  golden  wheat, 
And  in  all  nature  round  about 
He  face  to  face  with  God  does  meet. 

The  children  romping  at  their  play, 
Among  the  meadows  gathering 
The  nodding  daisies  in  their  arms, 
See  God  in  every  growing  thing. 

The  mountain  climber,  plodding  up 
The  thickly-wooded  trail,  hears  sing, 
When  from  a  bush  a  partridge  flies, 
God's  voice  within  that  rustling  wing. 

And  I,  the  dreamer  by  the  brook 
Hark  to  the  murmuring  waters  flow, 
Till  in  that  music  also  I 
Do    God's   eternal   presence   know. 


84 


THE  VIOLET  AND  THE  OAK. 

Once  in  a  fairy  forest  wild 

A  violet  and  an  oak  tree  grew. 

The  violet  bloomed  there,  meek  and  mild 

Among  the  grasses  bright  with  dew, 

And  the  oak  towered  undented 

High  up  among  the  heavens  blue. 

A  wind  came  puffing  past  one  day. 

Poor  Violet,  she  felt  afraid, 

And  shivered  on  in  such  a  way, 

The  big  oak  laughed,  "Pooh,  little  maid, 

No  wind  can  blow  great  me  away!" 

Then  bowing  down  to  her  he  said: 

"A  lesson  you  will  learn,  my  dear, 

If  you  observe  how  I  behave. 

I   am  immortal  and  a  peer! 

None  dare  touch  one  whose  heart  is  brave, 

And  neither  man  nor  God  I  fear !" 

Whereat  he  tried  to  look  most  grave. 

Next  day  a  woodman  came  thereby, 
And  wounded  with  his  axe  the  oak. 
The  clouds  then  gathered  in  the  sky 
Ere  he  had  done,  and  with  one  stroke 
The  lightning  left  the  tree  to  die, 
That  boastfully  no  longer  spoke. 

The  flower  feared  she  might  be  seen 
When  first  the  sturdy  woodman  passed. 
Now,  hidden  in  the  grasses  green, 
She  merely  trembled  in  the  blast, 
Glad  she  had  always  humble  been; 
And  to  her  stem  she  still  held  fast. 


85 


THE  REASON  FOR  CREATION. 

The  stars,  my  dear,  were  made  to  shine  for  you, 
The  sun  and  moon  were  thus  created  too; 
Wars  have  been  waged  and  cities  built  and  lost; 
Springs  have  bedecked  the  earth,  and  Winter's  frost 
Bared  earth's  old  breast  for  eons  and  for  eons; 
Cathedral  bells  have  bellowed  forth  their  paeons 
Since  Christ,  the  Savior,  came;  and  numberless  men 
Have  lived  and  died,  old  worlds  returned  again; 
And  countless  hearts,  both  faithful  and  untrue, 
Have  loved — so  that  Time  might  give  birth  to  you. 
When  you  grow  weary,  and  from  life  depart, 
Then  I  shall  watch  down  the  wide  west  descend 
The  last  of  days,  and  with  a  pining  heart 
Wait,  Helen,  for  the  universe  to  end! 


THE  GRAVEYARD. 

How  peaceful  and  still  is  the  graveyard ! 
Not  a  wind  through  the  tombstones  stirs. 
Not  a  bird  in  the  graveyard  is  singing. 
On  a  lone  bier  a  black  cat  purrs. 

The  flowers,  by  loving  hands  laid  here 

On  the  beds  of  dear  friends  long  at  rest, 

Lie  now  withered  and  drooped  in  the  darkness 

As  though  mocking  the  hands  that  them  pressed. 

On  a  tombstone  I  sat  me  down  weary, 
And  mused  with  my  chin  in  my  hands. 
On  a  tombstone  beside  me  sat  Sorrow, 
And  he  sat  with  his  chin  in  his  hands. 

"O  Sorrow !"     I  sighed,  "you  are  friendly, 
And  I  feel  that  your  heart  understands!" 
But  he  uttered  no  word  in  the  darkness. 
And  he  sat  with  his  chin  in  his  hands. 

I  rose,  and  I  left  him  to  brood  there, 

And  I  roamed  mid  the  sleepers  alone; 

And  the  graves  oped  their  dark  mouths  around  me, 

And  I  heard  them  in  agony  groan. 

Lo !  the  sleepers  awoke  and  came  forth  then ! 
Lay  heavily  on  them  the  years. 
They  were  flesh  not,  nor  bone,  nor  but  dust  e'en; 
They  were  dim  shapes  one  sees  but  through  tears. 

They  spoke  not,  they  heard  not,  they  saw  not ! 

With  their  thoughts  they  were  living  alone. 

And  they  paced  with  bowed  heads  through  the  shadows. 

And  I  heard  them  despairingly  moan. 


87 


LOVE  OF  MINE. 

Oh,  love  of  mine,  your  heart  is  gold, 

And  I  must  love  you  ever! 
Oh,  haughty  fair,  your  looks  are  cold, 

And  you  will  love  me  never! 

I  gazed  into  your  eyes  of  blue, 

And   felt  love's  dart  a-grieved  then. 

I  gave  to  you  a  passion  true, 
And  but  the  moon  received  then. 

Forevermore  I  must  repine 

(Since  you  can  never  love  me,) 

And  vainly  covet  stars  that  shine 
In  regions  far  above  me! 


88 


HOW  I  LOVE  YOU. 

Your  hair  is  brilliant  as  the  matin  sun, 
And  yet  I  do  not  love  you  for  your  hair. 
Your  mouth  is  like  an  amaranth,  dear  one; 
And  yet  I  love  you  not  because  'tis  fair. 
Your  eyes  are  brighter  than  the  stars  above, 
Your  lovely  skin  is  white  like  ivory! 
And  yet  I  for  none  of  these  reasons  love; 
But  bless  a  beauty  the  eyes  cannot  see. 
I  love  you  for  the  kindly  soul  in  you; 
The  generous  smile,  and  sympathetic  tear; 
The  steadfast  heart  beneath,  forever  true; 
The  deeds  that  prove  the  source  to  be  sincere: 
I  love  you  for  such  virtues  as  change  never, 
That  I  may  love  you  truly,  and  forever! 


THE  FLOWER  POT. 

There  in  that  tenement  window 

A  pot  of  flowers  stands. 
Tenderly  Grace  has  cared  for  it 

With  her  dainty  little  hands. 

She  bought  it  at  the  florist 

Only  three  blocks  away. 
She  saw  it  in  the  window  there. 

Kissed  by  the  smiling  day. 

It  reminded  her  of  the  country, 
Of  the  fields  and  brooks  and  trees 

Where  she  had  played  when  a  little  girl — 
A  pot  of  memories ! 

And  so  she  took  it  home  with  her, 
And  placed  it  in  the  window  there, 

And  like  a  mother  tended  it; 
And  it  was  blooming  fair! 

There  came  a  little  sparrow, 

That  perched  on  her  window  sill, 
And  sang  of  those  scenes  that  she  had  known 

With  a  brave  and  sprightly  will. 

He  peered  at  the  graceful  flowers, 
And  he  pecked  at  the  earthen  pot, 

And  fell  in  love  with  the  charm  of  it. 
And  sang  like  a  lover  hot ! 


90 


And  the  streets  and  monotonous  houses 

Faded  and  crumbled  away, 
And  the  breezes  wafted  the  daisies'  heads 

That  waved  in  the  fields  by  the  way! 

A  mumuring  brooklet  ran  by 

The  flowery  banks  of  a  wood, 
And  the  browsing  cattle  with  tinkling  bells 

In  the  tall  green  grasses  stood. 

And  Grace  with  a  rattling  milk  pail 
Flew  by  like  a  summer's  breeze, 

That  blows  through  the  nodding  meadows 
And  rustles  the  leafy  trees; 

And  she  smelt  no  more  the  stuffy 

And  poisonous  air  of  the  flat 
Where,  listening  to  the  sparrow's  song, 

By  the  open  window  she  sat; 

She  smelt  no  more  the  rank  air 
That  infested  her  tenement  home, 

For  her  dreams  brought  her  perfumed  breezes 
And  dales  where  her  heart  might  roam. 

Her  dreams  brought  her  scenes  bucolic — 
Flowers  and  woods  and  streams — 

Till  the  bird  flew  away  from  the  window  sill 
And  took  with  him  all  her  dreams. 

But  left  was  the  pot  of  flowers 
To  remind  her  of  all  of  it  yet — 

A  pot  of  flowery  memories ! 
While  they  bloomed,  she  could  not  forget. 


91 


JOY. 

Joy,  you  and  I  have  lived  together 
In  lovers'   bowers  and  sunny  weather. 
We've  sported  in  the  waving  meadows 
And  laughing  fled  from  Sorrow's  shadows. 
Heigh-ho !  the  winds  are  gayly  blowing ! 
Heigh-ho !  the  streams  are  swiftly  flowing ! ' 
Let  us  follow  winds  and  streams 
Till  we  find  our  truant  dreams. 
With  Song  and  Dance  we  will  be  going ! 

Fly,  fly!   from  sighing  Melancholy! 
She  is  a  sinful  fiend  unholy. 
Take  refuge  in  the  vales  of  pleasure, 
And  foot  a  quick  and  nimble  measure. 
Heigh-ho !  the  winds  are  gayly  blowing ! 
Heigh-ho !  the  streams  are  swiftly  flowing ! 
Melancholy  Night  is  fled. 
Joy,  to  you  our  hearts  we  wed. 
With  Song  and  Dance  we  will  be  going! 

Now  gayly  trip  with  Love  and   Passion, 
And  trill  a  lay,  as  is  the  fashion. 
We'll  pick  some  fresh  bouquets  of  flowers, 
And  deck  the  graves  of  mournful  hours. 
Heigh-ho !  the  winds  are  gayly  blowing ! 
Heigh-ho !  the  streams  are  swiftly  flowing ! 
Sorrow  in  his  coffin  place; 
Shroud  him  round,  and  hide  his  face. 
With  Song  and  Dance  we  will  be  going! 


92 


THE  MERRY  BROOKLET. 

Oh,  brooklet  blithely  running 
Through  tranquil  forest  ways, 

How  gay's  your  childish  laughter ! 
How  pleasant  are  your  days ! 

So  ran  my  spirits  long  ago 
Ere  vice  gave  birth  to  care. 

Oh,  whither  did  sweet  Pleasure  go? 
Her  eyes  and  lips  were  fair ! 

The  birds  then  sang  so  sweetly, 

The  world  was  ever  glad ! 
My  heart  rejoiced  completely, 

But  now  my  heart  is  sad. 

The  blood  is  cold  now  in  my  veins, 
My  heart  has  v/eary  grown; 

There's  no  delight  but  has  some  pains, 
And  while  I  laugh  I  groan. 

My  childish  dreams  are  broken, 

My  tearful  eyes  are  blind. 
I've  kept  no  cherished  token, 

And  spring  is  left  behind. 


93 


WHY  I  SING. 

Because  in  verse  I  cry  my  love  abroad, 

Do  you  suspect  my  passion  then  is  cheap? 

I  wish  that  all  I  meet  upon  life's  road 

Might  know  your  worth;  for  selfish  'twere  to  keep 

The  admiration  that  is  but  thy  due 

From  thee.  celestial  mortal  of  drear  earth! 

Let  all  the  world  attend  and  gaze  on  you! 

Have  they  seen  stars  of  your  bright  eyes  the  worth? 

What  rose  within  a  sylvan  cloister  grows 

That  e'er  was  fair  enough  to  grace  your  cheek? 

The  herd  such  super-beauty  seldom  knows! 

Yours  is  the  beauty  that  the  poets  seek, 

That  beauty  blest  of  which  but  angels  sing, 

That  never  deigns  to  nether  worlds  to  wing. 


THE  END 

I  dreamed  the  world  came  to  an  end, 
But  not  in  tune  with  man's  predictions; 
For  when  sun  superseded  storm, 
Shattered  were  all  the  old  convictions. 

Did  man  dream  that  a  humble  hill 
Could  e'er  a  mighty  mountain  be? 
Oh  no !  his  infant  mind  mistook 
A  second  for  eternitv! 


ON  INNOCENCE. 

A  bud  before  it  opens  to  the  world, 
Untorn  by  tempests,  safe  in  blindness  furled,-- 
Such  is  sweet  Innocence,  virtue  undefiled, 
That  dwells  in  smiles  and  tears  of  but  a  child. 
Wisdom  beside  this  infant  virtue  pales. 
Knowledge,  with  it  compared,  in  prestige  fails. 
For  it  to  Truth  and  Honor  seek  were  vain; 
Since,  being  blind,  it  may  no  wrong  obtain. 


HEART'S  DESIRE. 

The  god  I  yearn  for  is  not  on  this  earth. 

He  sits  a-dreaming — dreaming  in  the  skies. 
I  wish  that  I  could  blast  the  welkin's  girth 

And  quench  heart's  taunting  thirst,  and  still  its  sighs ! 
Despairingly  I  scan  the  emptiness, 

Knowing  too  well  that  nothing  lurks  therein. 
I'd  leave  these  worldly  scenes,  that  so  depress, 

And  quaff  a  kind  draught  from  oblivion ! 
For  while  I  live  I  may  but  yearn  for  peace; 

And  where  is  peace  assured,  but  in  the  grave. 
I  would  a  mossy  tomb  forever  lease. 

Where  I  might  sleep  the  endless  sleep  I  crave ! 
But  nOj — to  serve  the  drink  stern  Fate  declines 
While  for  a  ghost  my  heart  still  vainly  pines. 


95 


IN  THE  ART  MUSEUM. 

Within  the  art  museum  I 

Among  the  masters'  portraits  spy 

A  lady  lost  in  admiration 

O'er  some  saint  in  an  exaltation. 

Would  I  might  whisper  in  her  ear, 

"You  are  the  fairest  picture  here!" 


SNOWFLAKES. 

I  at  the  window  sit 
And  watch  the  snowflakes  flit 
Like  holy  thoughts  that  fly 
Down  from  God's  brain,  the  sky. 

I  watch  them  slowly  sink. 
And  try  to  muse  and  think 
What  they  remind  me  of, 
Descending  from  above. 

"These  snowflakes  are,"  say  I, 
"Descending  from  the  sky, 
Like  dreams  when  first  they   start, 
Descending  from  God's  heart." 

I  catch  them  in  my  hand 
And  watch  them,  as  they  land, 
Melt  into  tiny  streams 
Like  anybody's  dreams. 


96 


THE  ELOPEMENT. 

Night  'gan  to  steal  on  old  Seville 

And  o'er  Giralda  tower. 
A  star  shone  bright  through  the  clear  night— 

Oh,  peaceful  was  the  hour! 
With  her  guitar  accompanying, 

Delores,  lovely  fair, 
Was  heard  to  magically  sing 

A  tender,  plaintive  air. 

Delores  at  her  casement  sat, 

A  rose  within  her  hair. 
Less  bright  the  skies  shone  than  her  eyes — 

Never  was  one  so  fair! 
The  lonely  soul  of  her  guitar 

Dies  singing  in  the  night; 
Her  voice  ascends  to  heaven's  star, 

And  trembles  with  delight ! 

"Light  of  my  eye,"  I  softly  cry, 

"I  proffer  you  my  heart! 
Dark  is  the  night,  and  safe  for  flight 

Let  us  this  hour  depart!" 
I  mount  unto  her  balcony 

And  lift  her  in  my  arms, 
And  from  her  father's  house  we  flee 

Ere  anyone  alarms. 

My  black-eyed  fair  on  horse  I  bear 

Through  Andalusia's  hills. 
We  gallop  fast  till  we  have  passed 

What    distance    Caution    wills. 
Then  slowing  to  a  walk  my  steed, 

I  kiss  my  stolen  bride, 
And  singing  gayly,  sorrow-freed, 

Under  the  moon  we  ride. 
97 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD. 

I  hear  the  humming  of  his  tiny  wings 
About  the  tempting  honeysuckle  vine: 
Intoxicated  with  the  flowers'  wine, 

The  humming-bird  there  in  the  sunlight  sings. 

Ah,  birdling,  would  my  life  were  such  as  thine — 
To  fly  from  sweet  to  sweet  all  the  day  long 
Upon  such  tiny,  subtile  wings  of  song — 

Would  that  thy  short  unsaddened  life  were  mine ! 


THE   SONG-BIRD. 

I  am  a  song-bird  in  a  glade, 
Drinking  the  madness  of  the  spring. 

Of  dreams  my  heart  is  unafraid — 
Of  dreams  I  sing. 

The  roses  by  the  wayside  blooming 
I  soon  may  reach  upon  the  wing, 

And  though  there  should  be  thunder  booming 
My  dreams  I'll  sing. 

The  cataract  o'er   the  precipice   falling, 
The  merry  stream  that  trips  along, 

The  winds  among  the  treetops  calling 
Join  in  my  song. 

I  care  not  for  the  heavy  cares 
That  lie  on  others'  aching  hearts. 

I  dream  my  dreams  and  trill  my  airs 
Till    spring   departs. 


98 


LOVE   SONG. 

Her  lovely  head  against  my  shoulder  pressed, 

Her  violet  eyes  upturned  to  me — 
I  held  her  with  mad  joy  against  my  grateful  breast 

And  kissed  her  rose-lips  tenderly. 

The  moon  had  like  a  maiden's  heart  arisen 

In  the  illimitable  east — 
A  love-lit  heart,  escaped  from  its  terrestrial  prison, 

The  dark  cell  of  the  human  breast. 

"When  I  no  longer  love  you,"  I  professed, 
"The  planets  will  have  ceased  to  shine!" 

A  heart's  beat  answered  in  my  love's  enamored  breast 
The  reeling  universe  was  mine ! 


99 


ENVOY. 

Dreams  before  the  mirror  pass. 

Clouds   and    fairies,   fields  of   flowers, 

All  within  the  magic  glass 

Are  reflected — but,  alas ! 

They  have  flown  now  with  the  hours. 

Castles  of  a  dreamer's  heart 
In  the  magic  mirror  gleamed, 
Citadels  of  wondrous  art 
Never  painted !    All  depart — 
Pictures  that  a  dreamer  dreamed. 

Place  the  closed  book  on  the  shelf, 
Shatter  the  enchanted  glass; 
See  between  the  cracks  your  self 
Mocking  like  a  grinning  elf. 
Broken  is  the  spell — alas! 


100 


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